


unknown quantity

by inbetweenfractals



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon Asexual Character, Gen, M/M, Time Travel, Trans Character, canon typical creepy things such as worms, not sure if this will really be much of a fix it or not, spoilers through s3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 24,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24200659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbetweenfractals/pseuds/inbetweenfractals
Summary: Elias curses. The Archivist has died.A few years into the past, the Archivist wakes in a body that feels at once just right and too small. It feels like coming home.(In which Jon dies during the destruction of the Unknowing before waking back when he first became the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 189
Kudos: 571





	1. a new position

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Writing more time travel fanfic? It's more likely than you think.

The last things Jon knows are sudden certainty of his end, and noise, and pain. Then all is blissfully dark and silent. For once, he does not dream. 

...so, it is with a vague sense of surprise that he wakes. He is drowsy for a moment, hungry in that deep way that tells him he needs a statement, needs knowledge and truth and the power that comes with those things. It is not a good feeling. 

He sighs, rolling his shoulders and noticing how his body feels too tight. Like a wool sweater that has shrunk in the wash. He lifts a hand to his face, dragging it down across his skin. 

With a start, he notices the hand is smooth and unscarred. 

That isn’t right. That’s the hand he had shook Jude Perry’s hand with. The hand that had burned. But when he looks at it, there is just his own dark palm, with none of the painful scarring he remembers. 

Fear thrills through him. Is he not awake? Is he trapped in some sort of distortion? Is something lying to him? Did the Unknowing succeed?

But then, he Knows what has happened.

And what he Knows makes him elated and terrified all at once. 

Martin Blackwood doesn’t know what to make of Jonathan Sims. When Elias introduces the man to him and Tim and Sasha, the shorter man  _ stares _ at them. Like he can puzzle out all the secrets of the universe just from looking at them.

And, considering Jonathan’s piercing gaze, maybe that is indeed the case.

But soon the expression is covered over with a practiced disinterest that cannot hide the sharpness in his eyes. Elias nods at him, and after swallowing, Jonathan Sims introduces himself.

“I am the Archivist,” he says. 

That...is it.

After a moment, Elias clears his throat and, uh,  _ the Archivist _ , colors. “Jonathan Sims,” he continues. “But please, call me Jon.”

From there, Elias takes his leave. Jon steps forward, brushing past them into the Archives, speaking all the while. “I’ll be having you researching statements, following up, the like. Most of the statements are false - however, if you cannot record a statement on your laptop, hand it over to me and I will take care of it.”

Although Jon is much shorter than him, Martin still puffs a bit at the breakneck pace Jon is taking into the depths of the Magnus Institute. “Wait,” he says, “What do you  _ mean  _ if we cannot record a statement on our laptops?”

Jon abruptly turns to him. Martin has to halt quickly to avoid bumping into him, and Sasha and Tim have to do the same. “Exactly that,” Jon says, peering up at him through thick glasses. “If a statement, ah, refuses to record then I will take it.” Then he continues on, resuming that crazy pace, until they are well and truly inside the Archives.

Jon disappears almost immediately into his office and shuts the door behind him with a definitive  _ thunk _ .

Martin, Tim, and Sasha all stare at each other.

“What the hell was that?” Sasha asks at last.

“Awfully weird, even for him,” Tim says with the air of someone who knows the depths of Jon’s weirdness.

“You know him?” Martin asks. 

“Yeah, we were both in Research for a while,” Tim explains with a shrug. “Although he is a mid-level researcher, or  _ was _ , he has no archival experience that I know of. No idea why he was picked for this gig.”

“...huh,” Martin says. He finds it surprising that the man with those knife-sharp eyes has almost as little experience as he does. It had seemed like Jon knew everything, as if he had been on the job for years.

“Hey, what’s this doing here?” 

“What’s that, Sash?” Tim asks.

Sasha points to a tape recorder, sitting at the reading table in the middle of the assistant office that the three of them are to share. As soon as she notes it, it clicks off.

“Wait, was that just recording us?” 

“Uh, yeah, Tim. I think it was.”

“And it turned off on its own? Spooky.” Tim grins. Martin, however, notices the expression doesn’t quite touch his eyes.

Once alone in his office, Jon buries his head in his hands.

It’s harder than Jon thought it would be, to see his assistants again. Martin is the easiest, in a way. He always was so unassuming. Tim’s smiles seem genuine, and Jon reflects that they hadn’t disappeared until after Jon’s paranoia had gotten the better of him. Perhaps he can - not  _ protect _ that exactly, but - perhaps he can keep from ruining that again. And Sasha. 

Oh, Sasha.

So this is the Sasha Jon could not remember. She’s tall, with longer, darker hair than NotSasha, and glasses that NotSasha never needed. He doesn’t know enough of her yet to be able to say what parts of her personality he remembers are really NotSasha and what parts are truly her.

He wants to grab her, to tell her to avoid Artifact Storage on her own, to be careful. To  _ live _ .

But that would be a little too strange, and it would incite too many questions.

It’s already bad enough that he introduced himself as the Archivist in front of Elias. He knows the man will be watching him closely now. 

“Shit,” Jon murmurs. 

After a long moment more, Jon lifts his head. He stands and makes his way across the room to where boxes of statements line the walls. He picks one out not quite at random. It is intuition that guides him, a sense for what is true and what is not.

He picks up the folder and walks back to his desk. Without needing to touch it, the tape recorder sitting there clicks on.

He begins.

“Statement of...Nathan Watts, regarding an encounter…”

Martin has already dropped off Tim and Sasha’s tea, made how they said they like it. Tim takes his a smidge over-brewed, with no cream or sugar to speak of. Sasha likes it more normal, with a splash of cream and a spoonful of sugar.

Martin is reluctant to bother the new Head Archivist, so he made another cup brewed how he thinks Jon might like it. Regular brewing time, just a bit of cream, and no sugar. Jon doesn’t seem like a sweet sort of person.

He knocks on the door, but there is no response, just the quiet drone of Jon’s voice. So Martin lets himself in.

Jon makes no sign of noticing that Martin has come in. Instead, he seems completely absorbed in the statement as he reads it to an ancient tape recorder, much like the one that had been in the archival assistants’ office.

“...haven’t quit smoking, but I do find that I take a lot more taxis now if I find myself out too late.” A pause. Then: “Statement ends,” Jon says with a sigh. The recorder turns off with a click.

Oddly, the sigh sounds contented to Martin’s ears, like the way someone talks after having a good meal. But then Jon slumps, resting his forehead on one hand, his elbow propped on his desk.

Now that Martin is watching him closely, he looks  _ exhausted _ . Dark shadows are under eyes that gaze sightlessly forward, and his cheekbones are prominent in a face that looks just this side of gaunt.

“Um,” Martin says. Those eyes snap to his face with a sudden intensity, and Martin can’t help but take a small step back. “Tea?”

The look on Jon’s face abruptly softens, and while he doesn’t quite smile, Martin gets the distinct impression that he might be doing so all the same. “Ah. Yes. Thank you, Martin.”

Martin sets the mug down on Jon’s desk, carefully away from any papers or the recorder. It is one of the bland Institute mugs, a light cream color with a stylized owl and  _ The Magnus Institute _ emblazoned on it in dark green. Jon immediately wraps his fingers around the mug, but makes no move to drink.

Jon’s fingers are long, Martin notes, despite having such small hands. Jon seems to be small in every way, except for long hair drawn up in a bun and those eyes, which seem too large for his face.

Eyes that are still watching him.

“Um,” Martin says again, intelligently. “I don’t know how you like your tea, so I made my best guess, I hope that was..okay….”

Jon has lifted the mug to his lips, and despite the hot steam still curling up from the tea and fogging his glasses, he drinks. He sets the mug down again and smiles, genuinely and fully.

It’s a beautiful smile. It transforms his face, wiping away the exhaustion and replacing it with a warmth that Martin didn’t realize Jon could muster.

“It’s perfect, thank you.”

The tea burns Jon’s tongue and throat as it goes down, but by the time he sets the mug back on his desk, the pain has already faded, leaving warmth in its wake.

Jon doesn’t know how Martin got the tea  _ just right _ the first time. A part of him screams in a paranoid voice that Martin knows something. That Martin knows him better than he should. But when Jon looks up at him, Martin has a guileless expression, with just a bit of - awe? - in it. Jon wonders at this, but he finds that he is smiling already.

“It’s perfect, thank you.”

“O-oh, really?” Martin squeaks.

Jon rests his chin in one hand, the other other still curled around the mug. “Yes. You must have a very good instinct for what people like.”

Inexplicably, Martin blushes. At least, that’s what Jon thinks is happening. It could be a flush, out of embarrassment or anger. He hopes it’s a blush. He doesn’t know why he hopes, but he hopes just the same.

He’s never really understood people well. Not others, and certainly not himself. That not knowing bothers him, but he shoves that itch aside for now.

Because right now, Jon feels good. He has just sated himself with a statement; he has warm,  _ perfect _ tea; his team is alive and well; and he has a chance to make things better. He doesn’t know how much hope he has, but he thinks that everything has a chance to be okay.


	2. warned off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a weak, weak man (...sort of) and so I'm giving you this chapter already. WELP

Jon knows he can be...unpleasant. 

Well, he is just self aware enough to know that  _ unpleasant _ is putting it mildly. Truth be told, he can be an asshole. It is even often on purpose.

It hadn’t started that way, of course. What child is born that decides that they want to be soundly disliked by - well - everyone? But he always came off that way, even when he was a kid. He just doesn’t know how to, what, modulate his tone properly? He always comes off harsh, and like a know-it-all, and like he doesn’t care - and while those last two things are often true, they aren’t always. 

Well, now he is sort of a know-it-all. More so than most people might guess, at least.

And sometimes he does...care.

But caring is beside the point, the point being that he never knows how he is going to be perceived. It seems other people have that ability because apparently  _ they _ are likeable. 

At some point, Jon had gotten tired of his honest attempts being rebuffed, and he had settled into it, drawing his irritability around him like a protective cloak. If he couldn’t figure out how to do things right, well then he certainly had figured out how to do them  _ wrong _ . Just ignore anyone else’s attempts at closeness or conversation or whatever, and brush them off as tersely and dismissively as possible. No one wanted to be close to  _ that _ .

Even though Jon recalls deciding to trust those he can, he isn’t so sure anymore. He thinks that he should at least attempt to continue in the same mode - callous and a bit cruel. He doesn’t want anyone to get too close, after all. He doesn’t want to be found out for the inhuman...thing...he has become.

No matter how much he might watch longingly as Tim and Sasha bicker and Martin looks on fondly. No matter how much he wants to be close to them.

It doesn’t matter.

He has work to do.

The next couple months pass without much fanfare. Martin settles in comfortably to working with Tim and Sasha. Those two like to, um, quibble, but it’s very much in a friendly way. Martin enjoys listening, and he enjoys it even more when they include him, even if it is often in a teasing sort of manner.

He doesn’t understand Jon at all, however.

Jonathan Sims, who watches them all quietly, leaning towards them but rarely joining in on the conversation. Jonathan Sims, who enjoys Martin’s tea but otherwise appears to soundly ignore him. Jonathan Sims, who is at once an odd sort of gorgeous and infuriating, who doesn’t seem to notice his effect on others, or to care if he does.

Despite that smile the first day, Jon rarely acknowledges Martin. Or, if he does, it is often with some cutting remark. Martin hasn’t seen him smile since, or even show a hint of anything joyful. He just looks weary and irritable and distant, all the damn time.

It’s frustrating. Martin hates to admit it considering the man’s personality, but he does have...a bit of a crush on Jon. It’s mostly due to his looks, yes. But that one blinding smile, and the intelligence with which he speaks...yeah, okay. Martin can privately acknowledge when he’s interested.

And he can also understand that Jon definitely is  _ not _ . At all. Interested in Martin, that is. Whether in the stupidly attracted way that Martin is in him, nor in any way at all.

So it’s odd when Jon comes up to Martin privately, face unusually pale. He directs Martin into his office, sitting in his desk chair and leaving Martin to sit in an ancient and dusty armchair.

There is a long silence. 

Eventually, Martin works up the nerve to say, “You wanted to see me…?”

“Yes,” Jon says, but he is silent for a little while longer, watching Martin squirm. Eventually, he says, “Do not look into the case of Carlos Vittery. Do not go to his flat. Do not even think about it, if possible.”

_ Does he know? _ Martin wonders, as something white hot flares through him.  _ Does he know I’m unqualified? _ “You can’t just tell me not to do my job!”

“I can,” Jon says quietly. “And I am.”

“Well, fine, you  _ can _ , but you have to give me a good reason for it,” Martin snaps, insecurity and fear making his tone harsher than he intends.

That seems to get a rise out of Jon. “My telling you not to is not reason enough?”

“No! It isn’t!” Martin barrels forward, asking, “Am I just not good enough to do it?”

“What?” And Jon has the audacity to look surprised. For a moment, Martin thinks he’s going to deny it, but then Jon’s expression hardens and he says nothing.

“Right,” Martin says at last, angry. “Right.”

And with that he leaves, more determined than ever to look into the Carlos Vittery case.

Jon knows that his warning to Martin did not go well. He’s not exactly sure why it didn’t. Well. No, he’s actually somewhat sure. Martin doesn’t take well to being assumed incompetent. And Jon had let himself fall back into old patterns of acting like he was, just because he hadn’t wanted Martin to look at him too closely.

Still, he hopes Martin listened to him.

The next morning finds dread pooling in Jon’s stomach when Martin is more than a little late. He doesn’t have to look up Martin’s file to Know his phone number. He punches it into his cell phone and texts him,  _ This is Jon. You are extremely late. Are you unwell? _

A minute later, Jon’s phone buzzes.

_ Oh, yeah, sorry. Must have caught some kind of stomach bug. _

Jon’s heart doesn’t quite stop, but it is a near thing.

Corruption has come.

The knocking continues. Martin quite thinks that if he never heard someone - or some _ thing _ \- knock on his door again, it would be too soon.

There had been the temptation to wait it out, to keep his cards close to the vest. But that temptation is fleeting, as Jon knows he cannot possibly risk things going differently, for Martin to get hurt or killed or _worse_.

Jon immediately pulls on his jacket and steps out of his office. He strides into the assistant office, telling Sasha and Tim that he has to leave early that day. Before they can respond, he is gone again, heading up the stairs out of the Archives.

The walk over to Martin’s flat is at quick and too long all at once. Jon hadn’t checked Martin’s file and has never been to Martin’s place before, but he Knows exactly where to go.

The stench of rot is strong in his nose as he enters the building and ascends the stairs. Martin’s flat is the only one on the third floor, which is the highest floor in the building. As soon as Jon steps on the landing, he sees her.

Jane Prentiss is pressed up against Martin’s door, crooning at it and knocking on it. Worms pool around her feet in a silvery puddle, testing the entrance to his flat for any weaknesses. So far, it seems, they have found none.

She looks up as Jon approaches, and she does not cower from the fury in Jon’s entire being. But nor does she attack. She just looks at him, as much as a creature that no longer has eyes can look.

“Jane Prentiss,” Jon says. He seethes with anger, with the sense that one of his people is being stolen from him. “Jane Prentiss, I see you.”

She smiles at him then, silver lining the inside of her mouth. “You’re the Archivist, yes? Can you hear them?”

When he opens his mouth, it is not to answer. It is to compel.

“ **What have you lost?** ” he Asks, static buzzing in his teeth, on his tongue.

She shudders, silvery worms falling off her skin like water.

“I - “ she says, then stops. Her throat works. Finally, she answers, as she must. “I lost my humanity, but I also lost silence.”

“ **Do you miss the silence?** ”

She screams at him in answer, an angry, pained noise. A quiet part of Jon notes this down for later. Something new that he has learned.

She rushes at him, and he steps back, shouting, “I SEE YOU, JANE PRENTISS!” There is no power in these words except for what is intrinsic to them, that fear of being known.

She screams again, stopping in her tracks. Even the worms stop writhing. 

“I SEE YOU!” he thunders.

And she runs.

The knocking stops. Then, there is an awful, horrible scream. Martin shakes as he hears it, shakes with the pain of it.

He hears a voice, shouting something, something about being seen.

And then another scream, more terrible than the first.

_ I SEE YOU! _ he hears.

And then, there is silence. For a moment, Martin feels relief.

Then something knocks at his door and he is afraid all over again.

Jon knocks at Martin’s door, but there is no answer.

That dread and fear come to him again. Maybe Martin is already dead. Maybe Jon was too late. Jon throws his shoulder against the door, but it doesn’t budge. All it does is make Jon’s shoulder flare with pain. 

“Fuck!” he cries. “Martin? Martin, please - it’s me, it’s Jon. Prentiss is gone. You’re safe. Martin?”

There’s a shuffling sound, but no response comes.

Martin flinches as something slams against his door. But then he hears a curse, and it is not a woman speaking. That is enough to get Martin to step closer, careful not to disturb his barricade of a kitchen chair and several old towels.

Muffled by the door and the towels, he hears a voice calling for him. The voice says it’s Jon.

Jon?

He comes yet closer to his door, ready to bolt at any moment. He peers through the little view port and he sees - well. There are no more worms it seems. Instead he does see Jon, looking haggard as ever. Even his skin looks a bit gray.

But it does appear to be Jon.

Carefully, Martin moves his barricade away from the door. Before unlocking the door, he centers himself with a breath. He can do this. The worms are gone. It’s just Jon.

It’s Jon.

But how - and why?

He unlocks the door.

There is a click as the door unlocks. When it opens, Jon can see Martin, paler than usual with fear. His freckles stand out starkly against the pallor of his skin.

“Jon - “ Martin begins to say, but Jon is already moving.

Without any thought, he rushes forward and embraces Martin. He encompasses him in his arms as best he can, resting his head in the center of Martin’s chest. He thinks he can hear Martin’s heartbeat racing. It’s such a comforting  _ human  _ sound that Jon - Jon just - he - 

He breaks, a little.

He’s shaking. Not - not Martin, but Jon. He’s shaking as he holds Martin, and it’s all Martin knows to do to slowly put his arms around the smaller man. 

Jon is warm, comfortingly so.

And that’s what gets to Martin, after those long, cold, fearful hours. That warmth. That human warmth. He collapses a bit into the embrace, feels himself break down.

And they stand like that for a long time, leaning into each other, unable to break apart.


	3. a statement given cannot be returned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a couple chapters in the queue and the response has been really nice so far, so yes, I'm releasing another chapter already. I'm sorry my updating habits are so weird, because I know once I run out it'll likely be slow as hell. Again, welp
> 
> Next chapter is sort of where things kick off in a real way, at least so far as Jon and Martin and their interactions are concerned. You'll be seeing that soon, and I hope you enjoy the bit of build up in this chapter!

After a long time, Jon lets go and steps back. When Martin looks at him, his face has color in it again. Maybe a little too much color, as that dark skin is tinged red in the cheeks. Jon’s appearance matches how Martin feels, still shaky but with a heady rush of closeness.

“Jon. How did you - how did you know to come for me?”

Jon’s mouth moves downward. Not into a scowl but a frown. He shakes his head. He looks, for lack of a better word, flustered. 

Martin can’t help but press the issue. “How did you get her to leave?”

“I didn’t,” Jon finally says, but he studiously avoids meeting Martin’s eyes. “There was no one here when I came.”

“That’s not true,” Martin says. “I heard - it was you shouting, wasn’t it? ‘I see you,’ or something.”

That lovely bit of color in Jon’s cheeks drains away. He looks weary and unhappy when he says, “Yes -  _ yes _ , but…” He trails off, obviously unsure of what to say.

Martin doesn’t know what to say either. He just stands there awkwardly, feeling badly that he is the cause of the pinched expression on Jon’s face. Martin doesn’t know what to do with his body, whether to invite Jon inside, whether to wring his hands. He just feels...out of place.

“Come to my flat,” Jon blurts.

“Uh, what?”

Jon looks red again but now deeply unhappy with himself as he says, “Or - well, you don’t have to, but I doubt you want to stay here. It’s safer at my flat. Or at the Institute, if you prefer. Whichever. But I don’t want you alone here, and I don’t think you want that either.”

“I don’t,” Martin says, confused. “But I thought - to be honest, I thought you hated me. Or, or something.”

Jon sighs and pinches his nose, pushing his glasses upward. “That’s not - I don’t - I don’t  _ hate _ you. Far...far from it really.” This last is a bit quieter, as if Martin isn’t really meant to hear it. The words send a little thrill through him, that perhaps Jon likes him more than he had let on. 

Then Jon looks up at him, his glasses still askew. “Come with me,” he says quietly. “I want you safe.”

And what can Martin do but acquiesce?

Jon waits, sending furtive glances at the door as Martin packs a duffel bag with clothes and toiletries. Although he’s pretty sure he scared Jane off, he doesn’t Know for sure, and that bothers him. Jon is not terribly useful in a physical encounter, so he hopes she doesn’t show up again. He’s pretty sure what he has just done is a one-time thing.

He’s not even certain how he knew to do it at all. It was all...instinct and adrenaline and fear and rage. Not exactly the sorts of things he likes to rely upon.

After an eternity, it seems, Martin is ready. They go.

Jon’s flat is weirdly sterile. The furniture is all simple, low budget stuff, and there are no art prints or photographs on the walls. The only signs of life are the numerous papers spread about everywhere and the rumpled blanket on the couch. Jon nods at it.

“I tend to sleep on the couch,” he says, “so you can take the bed.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly - “ Martin begins to protest, but Jon cuts him off with a  _ Look _ . 

“It’s fine,” Jon says. “I don’t sleep much anyway.”

Well, Martin thinks. That much is readily apparent from the bags under Jon’s eyes. 

He shows Martin into the bedroom, points out the bathroom, and then lets him be. Martin immediately goes to take a shower, wanting to wash off the stench of sweat and rot and illness that still cling to his body. It feels better to be clean. And the water is nice and hot, allowing Martin to relax with a sigh.

When he comes out, Jon is seated on the couch, pouring over some file or another. 

What a work ethic. He had just somehow saved Martin from death by worm, which Martin still needs to figure out how he did, and yet he is back at work already.

Martin settles in next to him on the couch, a book from Jon’s shelf in hand. Something dense, some speculative science fiction. Jon startles, but with a glance at Martin he relaxes. 

They sit together in comfortable silence for a long time, the only sounds being the turn of a page or the scritch of Jon’s pen.

It’s...nice, to sit together with someone. To eat together with someone, even if it is just takeout for the millionth time in a row. Jon can cook, and he even enjoys it, but there hadn’t felt like much point anymore. Not when it’s just for himself. However, with Martin staying with him for however long, Jon thinks he might get back into it.

Martin is a surprisingly good conversationalist. Even if he and Jon get into a mild argument over the quality of certain poetry. The debate is fun, and it feels good to be challenged on something that isn’t really that important in the scheme of things. 

But Jon’s good mood abruptly comes to a stop when Martin nods at one of the tape recorders. “I should make a statement,” he says.

“No.”

Martin looks at him with puzzlement. “Why not? It’s what we do, isn’t it? Record statements of strange things? This whole thing definitely was rather strange.”

“I mean,  _ yes, _ but - “ Jon fumbles for an excuse. He can’t find one, and just shuts up.

Martin smiles. “See? I might as well.”

And Jon has no idea how to stop him.

Martin begins giving his statement, keeping an eye on Jon all the while. It’s weird. The world seems to narrow down, until all he can see are Jon’s curious eyes upon him. As he talks, Jon’s eyes go half-lidded, but no less sharp. Like the sound of Martin’s voice is some sort of - what, a drug? Martin wants to laugh at himself, but he’s caught in the spell too.

There’s a rhythm to his words, a certain cadence that is unusual for Martin. More eloquent than he usually manages to be. Like the words are coming up out of him from some secret place that he can’t generally access. It feels good, if a little scary, especially with the way Jon watches.

When Martin finishes, Jon sits back, saying hoarsely, “Statement ends.”

He looks better. Rounder, somehow. Like he’s just eaten a good meal, something more filling than the Mediterranean takeout they had just had. His tongue even darts out to wet his lips, an action that Martin watches with no little fascination.

Martin shakes himself. The time for thinking about your boss in  _ any sort of way like that _ is definitely not when you’re staying at his flat out of the kindness of his heart. A kindness that Tim would scoff at, but one that Martin feels gratified to know exists.

“Thank you,” Martin says.

But Jon shakes his head, expression distantly sad. “Don’t - “ he begins, before muttering  _ thank you _ in return.

Martin smiles.


	4. asked and answered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: there is an incident of self harm in this chapter!! It's more to, ah, prove a point rather than anything else, but still. Be safe. It's in the last section, which begins with: "Martin doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand at all, Jon can tell."
> 
> Explanation of what occurs in that scene at end of chapter.

There is something watching him.

_ There is something watching him _ .

Martin watches the watcher, as the worms come. They come and they devour him, and as he drowns, choking on silvery worms, the watcher just...watches. There is no pity in its gaze, no mercy in its eyes.

But there is no cruelty either.

It isn’t until Martin wakes with a silent scream that he realizes that the watcher looked like Jon. Like Jon, but not really him. Too many eyes, for one thing. Not all of them even on his body. Or visible. Just...there.

Shakily, Martin gets up. He decides the best thing for it is a nice cup of tea. Jon had even shown him where the tea was, and surprisingly enough they drink the same brand, the same type of tea. As long as he is quiet and doesn’t wake Jon, it should be fine.

Martin exits the bedroom, and pads through the living room barefoot. He’s nearly to the kitchen when he hears a sound.

A groan. 

Not the kind of good, sexy groan, but the sort that sounds like  _ pain _ .

After a moment of hesitation, Martin walks over to the couch, where Jon is curled in on himself in a position that looks uncomfortable. He raises a hand, unsure of himself. Oh. Jon is speaking, something strained and rushed. Martin leans in closer to listen.

“I don’t...want to... _ see _ . Please don’t make me watch. Please. Stop me, stop me, stop me.”

Whatever else Jon might be saying dissolves into a litany of  _ stop me _ and  _ please _ .

Okay, definitely a nightmare.

Martin shakes Jon’s shoulder, calling to him, telling him, “It’s just a dream, Jon! You’re safe. You - “

Jon watches. He can’t help it. He watches as Martin is devoured by worms, he watches as spiders wrap themselves lovingly around Carlos Vittery, he watches as Jane Prentiss becomes corrupted, he watches as…

Something shakes him awake.

Sleep-blind, Jon tries to push away whatever is shaking him, whatever horrible thing is touching him. “ **What do you want from me?** ” he shouts, squeezing his eyes shut and hunching in on himself in fear.

He doesn’t even realize that he had used his compulsion until he hears a choking sound and Martin’s voice saying, “I - I want you to be okay. And I want you.”

At that, Jon wakes fully. He knows what he has just done.

Something in Jon’s voice isn’t right when he cries, “What do you want from me?” It makes Martin want to answer - no, it makes him  _ need  _ to answer.

Without meaning to, he says, “I - I want you to be okay. And I want you.”

He feels heat come to his cheeks immediately. While both sentiments were perfectly true, he only should have said the first. Jon is staring at him in horror. And Martin feels plenty horrified himself, having just - what, confessed? confessed, in a certain manner of speaking - to Jon.

“I - I - I didn’t mean - “ Martin stammers, but Jon shakes his head.

“You did, and I’m sorry.”

“ _ You  _ are sorry?” Martin squeaks. “I didn’t want - I didn’t mean to sound like - oh - “

He cuts off as Jon places a hand over his mouth. Jon’s voice is insistent as he says, “I’m sorry, Martin. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Shouldn’t have done what?” Martin mumbles against Jon’s palm.

Jon looks ill. “I shouldn’t have asked. I compelled you, and I’m sorry.”

Martin pushes Jon’s hand away. “You - what?”

No, Jon looks worse than ill. He looks like he is facing his death in front of him. “I compelled you,” he says again, voice rising. He sounds anxious and upset and awful.

“What do you  _ mean _ you compelled me?” Martin asks, his voice rising too.

Jon freezes, that frenetic energy dying in stillness. For a moment, he seems to be arguing with himself. Then, it seems he comes to a decision.

At last, he says, “I fully understand if you want nothing more to do with me once I tell you this. Martin, I’m not  _ human _ .”

Martin doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand at all, Jon can tell.

Well. Not one for half measures, Jon decides on a practical demonstration. He sits up and carefully avoids touching Martin as he gestures for the other man to follow him.

Martin follows silently as Jon goes into the kitchen. But he is no longer silent as Jon pulls out a long knife meant for cutting meat. “Jon - what are you - “

Jon plunges the knife into his palm.

It  _ hurts; _ he bites back a scream. He can hear Martin’s breath go out of him like he had just been punched. 

Jon removes the knife. Already, his wound is closing up, like he knew it would. There is blood, of course, and he will have to clean the knife, but it is clear to both of them that he is healing at an abnormally fast rate.

Jon drops the knife in the sink, suddenly feeling shaky. It’s not the pain, he’s used to that, but the terrible knowing that he feels growing in Martin. The understanding that Jon is a monster and that he should be feared. 

The fear should be delectable but isn’t. Because it is not of him but  _ for _ him. 

Martin gathers his bloody hand in his, and the touch is so gentle that it makes Jon gasp.

“Don’t - don’t hurt yourself like that!”

Jon just shakes his head again. “Doesn’t matter. I told you, I’m not human. “

But he can’t bear to force himself to draw away from Martin’s touch. 

And Martin seems to know it too, hands reflexively tightening around his. “You still have a sense of pain, don’t you?”

At that Jon blinks at him. “Well. Yes.”

“Then  _ don’t hurt yourself _ .” 

It’s laughable, really. There is no true compulsion to the words, no ability to make Jon obey. But he finds that he wants to, if only to change the way Martin is looking at him. Like something to pity.

Sudden revulsion spikes in Jon, and he snatches his hand back.

“Don’t touch me,” Jon tries to growl, but his voice is a bit panicky. He notices this almost distantly, as a heavy wave of detachment settles over his shoulders like a blanket.

“Fine,” Martin says, blinking at him. Jon’s blood is on his hands, on his fingers. “I won’t touch you. But - tell me what’s going on, Jon!”

His voice holds even more panic and anxiety than Jon’s, and, for some likely ungodly reason, that causes Jon to relax. Jon nods, shoulders going limp. “I - of course. Let’s - wash our hands, and then I will tell you what I can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon, in order to show that he isn't human (by nature of healing very quickly), drives a knife into his hand. Martin is afraid, but more for Jon than of Jon. Martin, after determining that Jon still has a sense of pain, requests that Jon does not hurt himself. In the end, Jon agrees to explain what is going on.


	5. that which watches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so I finally finished s4 and I have THOUGHTS. Very few that will make it into this fic but god I'm already thinking of a s4 related one shot. Why I am so deep into tma I do not know. (Anyway that's why you're getting this chapter today rather than later...so expect a slow down after this, sorry!!)
> 
> Please note that the self harm from last chapter is mentioned in the first two sections of this chapter. It's not the focus really, but still. Be safe!

Martin goes into the bathroom to wash his hands. He doesn’t want to see Jon’s blood run off the blade he had - oh god - plunged into his own skin. The thought makes Martin nauseous. His mind is spinning. 

Jon isn’t human. Jon hurt himself. Jon is already healed. Jon isn’t human. Jon’s going to explain.

Jon isn’t human.

Martin meets his own gaze in the mirror. In the bright light overhead, his pupils are just larger than pinpricks, swallowed by the watery light blue of Martin’s irises. He’s never liked the color, always thought it looked weak. Washed out.

Nothing like Jon’s eyes, dark and seeing too much.

Martin turns off the water and dries his hands on the yellow hand towel that sits on the counter. Even though the blood is gone and Martin had used liberal amounts of lemon verbena scented soap, Martin imagines he can still smell it. Copper, iron, salt.

But when he looks at his hands, they are clean. Even maybe a little pruny from excessive washing.

Well. Time to hear what Jon has to say.

Jon watches distantly as his own blood slides off the knife. The long point of it is wickedly sharp, and a part of Jon longs to test it again. To feel it bite into him. To wake him up from this awful dream.

But, Jon knows, there is no waking.

Not from this. Not from where his own mistakes have led.

Jon grits his teeth when he shuts off the water. He can admit that he is irritated with himself. This whole mess could have been avoided if he just had been a bit more alert. Or if he hadn’t let Martin give him his statement, directing Jon’s eyes to Martin’s misery and fear.

A horrible part of him thinks this could have been avoided if he had let Martin remain trapped in his flat. But no, that’s - that’s a  _ monstrous _ thing to think. And Jon may not be human, but he doesn’t want to be a monster either.

Mechanically he dries the knife and puts it away. Then he wipes his still-damp hands on his sweatpants.

He doesn’t want - he doesn’t want any of this. He doesn’t want the way that Martin will look at him when he knows.

When Martin returns, it is to find Jon still at the sink, staring fixedly at the wall. There’s something tight in his expression. What, Martin wonders, do you say to your inhuman boss to get them to no longer look like the world is ending?

Also...huh, if Jon isn’t human, what pronouns does he even use? He/him still? It? Something strange and eldritch and completely nonhuman? Which would be another degree of separation when, after the worms and the dreams and Jon’s demonstration, Martin desperately wants something to be normal.

He clears his throat, but he has the sense that Jon had already looked to him before he had done so. “Um,” Martin says. “Couch?”

Jon inclines his (?) head. “...I suppose so.”

But when Martin sits, he can see Jon hesitate. Unfortunately for Jon, there is nowhere else to sit unless Jon wants to be on the floor, so Martin waits until Jon sits as far away from him on the couch as he (?) possibly can.

“Ask,” Jon says, waving a hand.

And though it may not be the most important question in the scheme of things, it is the first thing on Martin’s mind, so: “Pronouns?”

The hand freezes in midair. “...what?”

“Pronouns,” Martin repeats inanely. He sucks in a breath. “What I mean is, if you’re not human, do you even use the same pronouns as we do?”

For some reason, that elicits a shaky laugh from Jon. “I was human once,” Jon says, voice sad yet almost...fond? No, Martin must be making that up. “I still consider myself a man. I use he/him pronouns.”

That allows Martin to relax a little, that that much at least has not changed. Then:

“...wait. You used to be human?”

Jon nods. “Before I became...the Archivist.” And there’s that title again, what Jon had first introduced himself by, just a few months ago. “And, I guess when I died, that sealed the deal, really.”

“You  _ died _ ?” Martin squeaks.

At this, Jon looks a little uncomfortable. Or should Martin be calling him the Archivist? But that again feels impersonal and strange, and Martin doesn’t want that much change.

So Jon it is.

“Yes,” Jon says at last. “I did. Or, at least, I believe I did. After the explosion, I woke back here - in the - in the past. I do not think that would have happened had I survived.”

That’s a lot to take in. Martin doesn’t realize he has said as much until he hears Jon say quietly, “I understand. But I also understand I am not explaining myself well.”

Martin looks away from his hands, fisted in his t-shirt (and when had he started staring at his own white-knuckled hands?), and back at Jon. “Can you try?”

“I can,” Jon agrees. But it is several moments more before he continues speaking. “In August of 2017, a few allies and I attempted to stop a ritual that would bring about the end of the world. We, ah, blew up the building the ritual was taking place in. I don’t remember much about the ritual up until the explosion, which was. Painful. And then I woke again, a few months ago, the day I first became the Head Archivist.”

Martin tries to imagine Jon having anything to do with explosives, but the image won’t form in his head. That’s probably just as well, because Jon then says, “The less you know of future events, however, the better.”

“What, why?” Martin can’t help but feel a bit indignant.

But that sharp feeling fades when Jon levels a heavy gaze at him and says, “The Eye is watching. And I cannot protect your mind from those that would invade it.”

Martin sits back, leaning a bit away from Jon. “The Eye?” he repeats faintly.

Again, Jon inclines his head, now not meeting Martin’s eyes. “My...patron.” His voice is bitter.

A part of Martin wants desperately to provide some form of comfort, even if it is as simple as a hand on Jon’s knee. Another part wants to crawl out of his own skin, from the weight of the feeling that  _ something is watching _ .

And unlike the Jon-creature in Martin’s dream, this watcher is  _ cruel _ .

“I think…” Martin’s mouth is dry. “I think it can already see me.”

Jon’s eyes snap up to Martin again. Somehow, even though Jon is watching and Jon is not human, Martin no longer feels quite as uncomfortable. Like the pressure on him is reassuring now, somehow. Jon narrows his eyes, searching him, and the pressure increases, but not in a bad way. Like a hug, tightening around him.

“It can,” Jon agrees quietly. His voice sounds pained when he says, “There - there may be a way to protect your mind. It will be noticeable, and may raise suspicion from - well. But it will mean that your mind is better protected than it is as of now.”

“Do it then.”

Jon swallows. Martin sounds so sure.  _ Do it then _ . But if he knew what he was signing up for, well. Then he probably would be feeling very differently.

“Let me explain, first. Then decide,” Jon says, trying very hard not to sound like he’s pleading with Martin. Even if that is exactly what he is doing.

Martin nods. He still hasn’t moved from his current position, which is angled away from Jon. This Jon notes with a certain bitterness.

“Fine,” Jon says. He wishes he had a cup of tea, made the way Martin does for him. It always tastes more right when Martin makes it. But to ask now would be selfish, and it would derail the whole conversation anyway. Which would also be selfish.

“Fine,” Jon says again, even though it is all feeling less fine by the moment. “My patron, as you might call it, is known by several names. The Eye, the Ceaseless Watcher, It Can See You,  _ Beholding _ . It seeks knowledge. This allows...a certain person to read into minds. Not me,” Jon adds, seeing the way that Martin’s eyes widen. “I cannot do such a thing. The person who would read you that way - I cannot protect you from him. But Beholding can. If it knows you, truly knows you, then it will have no further interest in delving into you again. And thus, your mind would be safe.

“However, this would mean you are bound to Beholding. You would still be human, but things may...change.” Even though Jon had never thought of this before, the Knowledge comes with that deep sense of certainty. “You will be more curious. You will not be able to look away from that which hurts. You will always watch, feeding your patron. The other powers will know you are marked; they will not seek to have you, but they may seek to harm you. 

“Even now, you are bound, but it is a mild binding, and not truly to the Eye. If you accept Beholding like this, you will see into yourself and your fears in a way you haven’t before. Because that is what it feeds on -  _ fear _ . But, your mind will indeed be safe.”

After this speech, there is silence. Jon carefully does not look at Martin, does not want any insight into his thoughts.

If this is all too much, Jon doesn’t truly want to know, however much there is that itch that says  _ I need to know, I need to know _ .

He’s so caught up in trying to cut himself off from the world, that he doesn’t hear Martin’s answer.

He only comes back when a gentle hand rests on his knee. Jon startles, pushing his knee into Martin’s palm sharply. But Martin doesn’t wince. He doesn’t smile either.

His expression is serious as he repeats, “What do I need to do?”


	6. what makes a monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there shall be consequences.

“What do I need to do?” Martin asks, but Jon makes no indication of having heard him. His eyes are squeezed shut, and the crease between his eyebrows is deep.

Carefully, Martin rests a hand on Jon’s knee. Jon starts, his bony knee driving into Martin’s hand and his eyes looking up to see Martin, who repeats himself.

Jon cocks his head, as if listening to something. Then, he says, trepidation sliding into his voice, “I need to ask you a question.”

“That’s all?” Martin can’t help but feel relief.

But Jon shakes his head. “I have to compel you as before. You will be forced to answer, and neither of us will be able to stop what you have to say until you are done.”

That sounds….significantly less okay. But Martin has already decided that he’s going to do this. Not just because he doesn’t want some creeper peering into his head, but because Jon looks so lost and scared and...lonely. And Martin doesn’t want to see that in him anymore. Maybe if Martin can understand without being a liability, then maybe it will be okay.

And, deep inside, Martin can feel his own sense of curiosity unfolding, his own interest in knowing.

“Fine,” Martin says. “Do it.”

“Are you - are you sure?”

“That’s not the question, is it, Jon?” Martin asks, maybe just a bit irritated at having his resolve be questioned.

“No, it is not.” Jon looks down, at Martin’s hand still on his knee. Feeling self-conscious, Martin lets go and returns his hand to his lap. When Jon looks up again, his eyes are very dark.

“ **What do you fear?** ”

And Martin - he doesn’t want to answer, but he must. He must, and he does.

“I fear being alone. I fear abandonment. I fear that my mother hates me, just as much as I sometimes think she does. I fear that I won’t get to be close to you, to anyone who makes me feel right in the world. I fear that no one will ever accept me for who I am, just me, just Martin. Most of all, I fear I’m fundamentally unlovable and that I will die that way, unloved and unknown.”

Martin can taste the tears on his cheek as they fall into his mouth. He breathes heavily, feeling as if he has just run a long race. He feels scraped raw, ripped open.

He can’t meet Jon’s gaze, that ceaseless watching. 

And yet. And yet he does, when a slender hand comes into view and wipes away his tears. “I’m sorry,” Jon says quietly. “But now you are known.”

And the way he says it, it’s like he’s telling Martin that he is home.

Jon can’t help but stiffen when Martin collapses onto him crying. Very, very carefully, he reaches up and rests his hands on Martin’s back, allowing the other man to melt into him.

Those words - Martin’s fears - have nourished Jon, in a way even the live statement had not. It disgusts him, that something so painful and raw makes him feel better than he has in a long time. It really has been a long time. Jon doesn’t remember the last time he felt...full. Like that hunger for more, more knowledge, more  _ fear _ isn’t pounding in the back of his skull for once. He didn’t even know he could feel this good. He thought he knew what satiety was, but apparently he did not.

In him, Beholding feels pleased, like a large cat lazing in sunlight.

Jon hates it. He doesn’t know if it is the raw force with which he ripped out Martin’s fears or the binding to Beholding that is making him feel so right, but he knows that this rightness is wrong. It’s deeply, deeply wrong.

Especially because he has to hold back pleased laughter while Martin sobs on his shoulder.

_ Monster _ , Jon thinks bitterly. You stupid, horrible monster.

After what feels like an eternity, Martin calms. His breathing slows and he feels on the edge of sleep. But then he notices the shuddering beneath him. 

Martin draws back, just a bit, to take in Jon.

Jon’s mouth twitches, though Martin cannot tell if it is in joy or anger or sorrow. His eyes are shut, not opening even when Martin moves. There is tension in his posture, but despite it, his face looks - radiant.

Okay, so radiant might be a strong word for it. But it’s the first time that Martin has seen Jon that he doesn’t look exhausted. And it catches Martin’s breath.

“Jon,” Martin says.

But Jon gives a quick shake of his head, letting loose waves bounce on his shoulders. 

“Look at me,” Martin says.

“Trust me,” Jon mutters. “You  _ don’t  _ want that.”

“Everything has been crazy and horrible for the last two days,” Martin says hotly. “Trust  _ me _ to know what I want.”

Jon opens his eyes then and looks. Framed by dark lashes as they are, those eyes should be beautiful, but they are suspiciously bright. Like Jon is holding back tears.

And despite feeling pretty awful himself, Martin can’t help but ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jon answers automatically. Then he scowls and says, “Just a monster has bound you to an entity made of fear and horror. What could possibly be wrong?”

His voice rises on that last, and it seems through pure effort of will that Jon’s voice had not broken. 

“Are you…? You’re not a  _ monster _ , Jon.”

“I’m not  _ human _ , Martin.”

“But that doesn’t make you a monster! You saved me from Prentiss, I’m sure of  _ that _ now, and you helped me just now, and you let me cry all over you and make a big damp spot on your shoulder! You are  _ not _ a monster.”

Jon’s voice is sharp as the knife that had gone into his hand earlier, if not sharper, when he responds. “Oh? I am the Archivist, I am the avatar of the fear of being watched. I want to consume that fear, and I  _ enjoyed  _ it when I ripped your fears from you and bound you. Your fear - it was - it was  _ good, _ Martin. I felt as right as I have in a long time, before I became this - this thing. Maybe even longer. Maybe I was always meant to become this. Face it,” he breathes out through gritted teeth, “I am very much a monster.”

Martin sits back at that, hands falling from Jon’s shoulders. His voice is very small when he says, “Even so.” Then, a bit louder, yet not confident, “Even so, you haven’t exactly been binding people left and right, have you?”

“I - “ Jon blinks. The cruel anger in his face disappears. “No. Just you.”

Martin scrubs a hand over his face. “Look, I’m - I’m too tired and too freaked out right now to really say this right, but if you were really a monster, you wouldn’t have saved me.” He continues despite a noise of protest from Jon, “You keep trying to scare me off, or push me away, or what _ ever _ , but I don’t get the sense that that’s ‘cause you want to. You don’t want to be alone any more than I do. And you have heard exactly how little I want to be alone.”

“That doesn’t - “

“I’ve seen the way you watch us, Sasha, Tim, and me. You want to be around us. But you won’t  _ let  _ yourself. Because, what. You think you’re something bad? But there’s Jane Prentiss, and whatever apocalypse ritual thing you mentioned earlier. You’re not anything like that!”

For a moment, there is just the sound of Martin’s harsh breathing. He wonders, for a moment, if Jon even  _ needs _ to breathe.

Still. Jon’s not a monster. He’s not like those other things. He’s not. He’s  _ not _ .

At long last, Jon says, “You know that, do you?”

Martin pauses, but deep in his chest he feels sure. “Yes! Yes, Jon, I do.”


	7. a period of safety

When they walk in together the next morning, no one else is there. This is largely because Jon had insisted on his usual early hour, and Martin, while exhausted, hadn’t felt like arguing. So they make it to the office just past seven, with Tim and Sasha not due until eight.

Martin imagines the way Tim would wolf whistle at them if he knew Martin had spent the night at Jon’s. And he can’t help but blush. He looks up from where he’s making tea, cheeks still hot, to Jon, sitting in the breakroom, head in his hands.

The sight abruptly stops Martin’s good mood, like a needle popping a balloon. 

“Jon?” he calls. “You alright?”

Jon raises his head then, cheeks turning dark and rosy. “I - ah, yes. Of course, Martin. Just...just thinking.”

“It better not be a continuation of last night,” Martin says. Then he pauses, considers. Adds: “Well, unless you want to tell me more about this future of yours.”

Jon’s back stiffens at that. “Not here.”

“Um. What?”

Then Jon shakes his head. “Actually, I suppose here is just fine. He likely can’t see into the Archives anymore. Not as well as he’d like, at any rate.”

“Is this the mind reader? Who is this guy anyway?”

Jon gives a half shrug. Then, with a wry smile, he says, “Elias Bouchard. Also the man who killed Gertrude Robinson and - in my past only, I guess - Jurgen Leitner.”

“Wait. You’re saying  _ Elias  _ \- head of the Institute Elias - can read minds? And he killed - he killed  _ Gertrude _ ? And - uh, Leitner? The book guy?”

“Tried to frame me for both murders,” Jon adds helpfully. 

Martin feels the tremendous need to sit down. On autopilot, he sets the mug in his hand down. He stumbles over to the couch where Jon is sitting and collapses on it.

Even though things feel surreal - somehow even more surreal than before - Martin can’t help but notice that Jon shifts away from him. To give him space, perhaps? Or because Martin’s presence is that...uncomfortable?

Then Jon stands. “I should - get to work,” he says, the second half of his sentence sounding lame even to Martin. 

“You can stay,” Martin murmurs, but his voice is so quiet that Jon doesn’t appear to hear him. Instead, the other man whisks out of the room, retreating at a near-run to his office.

Jon hides. He  _ knows _ he’s hiding, that's the worst thing. And it isn’t the dread certainty of Knowing, but the half-assed self awareness he has developed over some time. He hides, leaning against the door to his office, pressing against it like he can shut the world out.

He’s pathetic. 

Martin is out there, obviously reeling with all that Jon has told him. Martin is out there, and unless Jon can make Martin’s flat safe again, he’s trapped between Jon and the Archives.

Of course, even if Jon  _ could _ help Martin be safe again, he wouldn’t be free. Jon has already seen to that.

Worse, Jon doesn’t know if the binding was something he had offered of his own free will. Had Beholding pushed it upon him? Had he compelled Martin into it? Certainly he doesn’t always notice when he compels another.

...Hell.

Jon buries his head in his hands again.

Then he lifts his head and squares his shoulders. He’s going to do some work. And by work, he means to figure out this Jane Prentiss situation once and for all.

Martin is still in the breakroom an hour later. He’s abandoned being upright for lying down, head on one armrest. The armrest is just a bit too high for it to be comfortable for his neck, but after everything, Martin can’t quite bring himself to care.

Tim bursts in, whistling. The whistling trails off when he sees Martin. He walks over, cautious but still confident. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Martin says automatically. “Just a bit tired, I guess.”

“You were sick yesterday,” Tim points out. “Are you sure you should be back already?”

“What?” Martin props himself up on his elbows. “I wasn’t sick. What are you talking about?”

At that moment, Sasha comes in, making a beeline for the kettle. She pauses when she takes in the tableau of Martin, looking confused and weary, with Tim bending over him, looking a bit concerned. “Everything alright, boys?”

Martin sits up properly then. “Yeah, except that Tim thought I was sick?”

“You...were?” Sasha says, though the pitch of her voice turns the statement into a question.

Martin shakes his head. “No! I was trapped in my flat by - by what was once Jane Prentiss. Where’d you get the idea I was sick?”

“What?!” Sasha and Tim screech, nearly in unison. Martin winces at the noise. Sasha then glances into the hallway, where Jon’s office is. But when he makes no appearance, she turns back to Martin and asks, “Jane Prentiss? The - the one with all the worms?”

Martin nods. “And why’d you think I was sick?”

“After Jon disappeared in the middle of the day, Elias came by asking for him. He mentioned you were sick then, not expected to be in for a while,” Tim answers.

Martin feels a bit sick at that. Had Elias known that Martin was trapped? And he  _ lied _ to the others about it?

Well. Murderer and liar. Martin guesses he shouldn’t be surprised.

God, when did his life go absolutely bonkers?

Jon doesn’t immediately go to get out a statement. Instead, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and shuffles over to the corner of his office that gets the best service. Opening his recent messages, he types,  _ Are you still there? _

No answer is immediately forthcoming, not that Jon is surprised.

No one’s life is on the line right now. He can wait.

“Huh,” Tim says. “I guess he just assumed. But it’s a bad thing to assume when a worm lady goes out and attacks an employee. Are you all in one piece?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, feeling a bit shaky. He begins to stand, but Sasha steps forward and gently pushes him back onto the couch. 

“What do you need?”

“Um, I was just going to fetch a glass of water.” 

Sasha nods and goes to get him one. While she’s pulling the filtered water pitcher out of the refrigerator, Tim sits heavily next to Martin, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him close. When Martin protests, Tim looks down his slightly crooked nose at him and says, “You looked like you could use a hug.”

At that moment, Sasha comes over, pressing a glass of water into Martin’s hands. “Here. You really do look like death warmed over.”

“Thanks,” Martin says, but he doesn’t manage to make the monosyllable as dry as he would like. He drinks.

“What happened?” Sasha asks.

“I looked into a case that maybe I shouldn’t have. Carlos Vittery? The arachnophobe? Anyway, that apparently got Prentiss’s attention and she trapped me in my flat for several hours. Eventually she left. I guess. I don’t know why.” That much is actually true, as Jon had not yet explained how he had gotten her to leave.

“You didn’t stay there, did you?” Sasha asks, eyes wide.

Tim curses. “That’s why you’re here so early, isn’t it? You don’t have to stay in your flat, you know. You could come to mine.”

Martin raises his unoccupied hand in protest. “No - no, it’s okay. I’m actually...I’m actually staying with Jon right now.”

“ _ Jon _ ?” Sasha and Tim stare at each other, then back at Martin, who shrinks a little under the scrutiny. 

“Perpetual stick up his ass, can’t give you the time of day Jon?  _ That _ Jon?” Tim sounds absolutely incredulous.

Martin risks a glance at the hallway, but Jon still has not left his office. “Um. Yeah?” he squeaks, then coughs. In a slightly lower register, he continues, “He’s surprisingly nice.”

“Right,” Tim snorts. Then his posture softens and he leans into Martin a little more. “Well, I guess this will sort that massive crush you have on him then, in one way or another.”

“I - !”

When it’s been nearly an hour, Jon glares at his phone irritably. “Fine,” he mutters and shuts his eyes. He types without looking, and it isn’t until he sends the message that he opens them again and reads what he wrote.

_ You have no friends but for those that live inside you. And they do not see you as anything more than a host, interchangeable with any other who can withstand them. You are well and truly alone. _

Almost immediately, he sees the dots that indicate that the creature on the other end of the line is typing.

He smiles then, something cold and victorious.

Good.


	8. a confrontational attitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decide to release this chapter a bit earlier than I might have otherwise, mostly because I wanted to talk about a couple of things.
> 
> The first is that the tma fandom is so nice?? Like, I've gotten so many more comments on this fic than some of my others, and it's really something I appreciate! I definitely do crave validation, so thank you for providing it!! I hope you all continue to enjoy this story.
> 
> The other is that I saw a comment saying that this story is helping them through a rough time. To anyone who feels similarly, thank you. Honestly, truly, thank you. I think that some of the great things about stories are that they can distract us from our troubles for a little while, but they can also remind us we are not alone. I hope that this story and any other I write can provide that for people - it's honestly something I care about a lot. Also, again to anyone going through a rough time, I hope things get better for you soon, I really wish you all the best.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter. In some ways it's more of a set up chapter for the next few, but hopefully still enjoyable! It's all for what happens next

It is late in the morning when Martin feels steady enough to actually make some tea. Sasha and Tim had eventually given him space, but now they work at the wobbly dining table in the breakroom so as to be nearby, which Martin appreciates. He doesn’t really want to be alone right now.

He’s also not sure that he wants to face Jon. Jon, who is inhuman and strange and often cold, but who has that surprising warmth and kindness to him. Now that he thinks about Jon saving him from Prentiss, Martin can feel that swollen aching in his chest that tells him his crush is becoming something greater.

....it’s a very good thing Jon cannot read minds, Martin decides.

He finishes making the tea, bringing Sasha and Tim their mugs. Everyone but Jon has brought in their own by now, so Sasha’s tea is in a brilliant red mug with a paisley design on it and Tim’s is in a very large novelty mug shaped like a pint of beer. They thank him and he smiles in return.

Martin leaves his own tea on the counter, in a mug shaped like a cat. The cat is a gray and black tabby with bright green eyes. For some reason, the expression reminds Martin of Jon, which is part of why he bought it. He used to think he was more partial to dogs, but even now, looking at the mug, he can feel his opinions shift.

With a slight smile, he picks up the mug of tea for Jon. It is still one of the Institute mugs, with a chip on the handle that Martin is careful to avoid.

Martin knocks on Jon’s office door, but when there is no answer he lets himself in as usual.

What is  _ not  _ usual is the fact that Jon is gone. Martin sets the tea down on his desk, wondering if Jon is just in the bathroom or something. But if that were the case, he would have needed to pass the breakroom, wouldn’t he?

Martin then notices the sole sticky note on the desk. He turns his head to read it.

In Jon’s slanted, spidery handwriting it says,  _ Martin: I’ve gone to a meeting. If not back by end of day, STAY IN THE ARCHIVES. _

Martin exhales slowly, trying to calm the sudden racing of his heart.

Jon exhales slowly, trying to calm himself before his confrontation. He’s at Martin’s flat again, the oppressive smell of illness and rot and Corruption strong in his nose. Although he doesn’t have a key, he doesn’t need one. Instead, he waits on the landing as the stench grows stronger and stronger.

Eventually, Jane appears at the top of the stairs. Jon has no idea how she managed to enter the building without causing people to run away screaming, but he doesn’t really have a desire to Know either. It hurts, Knowing does.

“Jane Prentiss,” he says by way of greeting.

“Archivist,” she hisses, but she makes no move to attack. She just lingers at the top of the stairs. If it weren’t for the worms pouring off of her, pouring  _ out _ of her, Jon would think that she were just a little lost.

He inclines his head.

“Why did you call me back here?” she asks, voice a silvery rasp. Then she grins, worms flitting between blackened teeth. “Here to offer your assistant to me again?”

“No.” Jon’s voice is firm and cold, almost surprising him as it leaves his mouth. “He belongs to Beholding now - you cannot have him.”

“Pity that,” Jane says and spits a worm to the floor. Jon eyes it for a moment before turning his attention back to her.

“I have questions for you,” he says.

“I will not answer.”

Jon’s smile is tight, and really all he does is bare his teeth. “You will,” he says, sure.

“And what is to keep me from killing you right now?” Jane asks.

Jon hefts the canister of CO2 he had beside him. Jane hisses when she sees it, and Jon’s grin widens.

“Now that we are on the same page,” Jon says briskly, “ **Why are you planning on attacking my Archives?** ”

Martin tries to bury himself in work, sitting in the breakroom with Tim and Sasha. But he doesn’t manage it, casting glances at the clock every so often and constantly worrying. Tim and Sasha don’t press, but he can feel them watching him every now and then.

Martin wonders if this is the normal amount of feeling like he’s being watched, or the abnormal  _ Beholding _ amount.

He wishes he knew.

“That was. Quite.  _ Elucidating _ ,” Jon says through gritted teeth. 

He is perched on the fire escape outside Martin’s apartment, a thick layer of CO2 sprayed against the window. Jane has not followed him out here, thankfully, though Jon keeps a wary eye out for any flashes of silver.

Well, beyond what he already knows is there.

He opens the Swiss army tool, first to the knife. He cuts away at his trousers and grimaces at what he sees. There are several dead worms hanging out of his upper thigh. He switches to the corkscrew attachment, which is just the right size for dealing with the nasty things. He presses the tip of the metal spiral to first of the injuries and he breathes.

He takes longer than maybe he should to brace himself, but once he does he acts quickly.

“Quitting time!” Tim cheers, stretching. 

So it is, Martin notes. And Jon still isn’t back yet.

Martin watches as Tim and Sasha pack up, but makes no move to do so himself.

“Alright, Martin?” Sasha asks. “Jon’s not back yet - we could stay and keep you company until he returns.”

“Oh no,” Martin says. “That’s quite alright. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, um. It’s safe here.”

“Suit yourself,” Tim says. “But call me or Sash if you need anything. We all know that Jon is a nut.”

Martin can’t quite deny that one.

Jon rests his head against the wall, panting. His makeshift surgery is complete, and he feels very tired.

And hungry, he realizes with a pang. It seems that Martin’s fears only go so far once Jon uses his powers and gets injured. “Hell.”

Slowly, carefully, he makes his way down the fire escape ladders. His leg hurts like hell, but it is the good clean sort of hurt that tells him he is not being affected by Corruption. Once he is down on ground level, Jon closes his eyes and plans his route home.

To the Archives.

It is a quarter until seven when the door opens. Martin is up like a shot, having been staring blankly at his laptop for hours.

It’s Jon.

He looks horrible, with a gash in his trousers showing bloody wounds.

But it’s Jon, and he’s back.


	9. a deep need is dark indeed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I mentioned consequences before? Well...

At the sight of Martin, all the fight leaves Jon’s body. He stumbles through the door of the Archives on legs suddenly as heavy as lead. The only reason he doesn’t collapse to the floor is because Martin catches him.

“Jon, you - you’re  _ bleeding _ !” Martin shrieks.

Jon casts a glance at his leg. “So I am,” he observes.

“What happened? I thought - I didn’t realize you could get hurt like this!”

“Wounds made with the influence of the other powers do not heal so quickly, it appears.”

That voice.

Jon stiffens. He looks up to see Elias, standing over them like a vulture, something cruel in his eyes.

Martin stills as well. Jon can practically feel the fear radiating off of him. It takes a lot of Jon’s will not to melt into the warmth of that fear, to settle in it and drink it in.

“You know more than you should, don’t you,  _ Archivist _ ?” Elias asks. 

There is no power of compulsion behind Elias’s voice, so Jon just shakes his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He can feel it then, that prodding feeling of Elias trying to read his mind. But Beholding Knows Jon, Knows him better than he knows himself. Thus, Jon is able to watch with mild satisfaction as Elias’s face goes red with frustration.

“Is something the matter?” Jon asks, voice dry as an old bone.

Elias’s mouth twists.

“You know, your grandmother always thought you were a failure?” Elias’s tone is conversational despite the anger glittering in his eyes. “That’s why she didn’t want you. And seeing you now, I cannot help but feel inclined to agree.”

With that, he takes his leave, the shadows seeming to follow in his wake.

“The hell was that?” Martin whispers, feeling more than a little horrified. “Jon - what was - “

He cuts himself off. Jon is staring in his direction, but he isn’t registering Martin at all. There is no recognition in his expression.

Martin can’t help but think of that horrible moment that morning, when Jon had ripped his fears from him, when he had confessed that he was terrified his mother hates him. What Elias had just said - it felt very much like that. But instead of crying like Martin had, Jon has shut down entirely.

The whole situation is very overwhelming. Part of Martin wants to just stay there, cradling Jon and ignoring the world. 

But he can hear the quiet  _ drip...drip… _ of the wounds on Jon’s leg bleeding.

“Come on, let’s get you wrapped up,” Martin murmurs. He hefts Jon up - who is surprisingly light even with his diminutive frame - and staggers towards the breakroom. He continues talking, in a soothing voice generally reserved for rescuing injured birds and the like. “There’s a first aid kit back here. We’ll get you nice and patched up, and then you’ll be feeling much better.”

He sets Jon down on one of the chairs. He turns away to pull the kit out of the cupboard below the sink, rummaging through it for disinfectant and gauze. He returns victorious to Jon, whose face has gone ashen. Martin doesn’t curse, just moves the flap of bloody cloth out of the way so he can access Jon’s wounds.

The wounds are very regular circular holes, each deep enough that Martin suspects he could bury his fingers up to the first or second knuckle in them. He shudders at the thought.

He cleans the wounds and bandages them, talking gentle nothings the whole while. Once done, he looks over his handiwork. It’s not professional by any means, but Martin hopes it will do. What he doesn’t understand is why Jon’s not healing like before. Elias had said something about the influence of other powers, but what that means Martin does not know.

Jon’s face is still quite gray, and there is a sheen of sweat to his skin. Casting about for a solution, Martin asks, “Are you - are you hungry? You just lost a fair amount of blood. There’s not much here, but I’m sure I could find an apple or - “

He shuts up when Jon grabs his arm, pausing him midgesture.

“Yes,” Jon says faintly, licking his chapped lips. “I could use something to eat.”

Martin sags a bit with relief. “Oh, thank god - I was afraid that you - it doesn’t matter,” Martin says hurriedly, noticing the naked curiosity in Jon’s face. Jon looks a bit disappointed at that.

Then he leans forward, making to stand. Martin places his hands on Jon’s shoulders. “No - don’t get up yet! I’ll get you something.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Jon shakes his head and gets up with surprising strength. Martin moves his arms so that Jon can lean on him for support. Jon does so, then tilts his head upward to mutter in Martin’s ear, “I require sustenance but that - I should procure on my own.”

“I’m not leaving you! You can barely stand as it is,” Martin protests.

“Very well.” The look Jon levels at him is unreadable. “But do not interfere.”

“Interfere?” Martin repeats blankly. But Jon is already moving, and in order to continue supporting him Martin must follow. “Wait - wait, wait, wait, let me get my wallet and coat at least!”

“Fine,” Jon says, tone obviously impatient. He lets go of Martin and leans against the wall. Martin takes this opportunity to gather his things up. He rejoins Jon, extending an arm for Jon to cling to.

It makes Martin feel a bit warm, really, to have Jon rely on him like this. It isn’t that Martin wants people to be dependent on him or anything, but he likes being needed.

As soon as they exit the Institute, Jon sways. His eyes are closed, and for all the world he reminds Martin of a snake tasting the air for prey. Martin, remembering the  _ do not interfere _ instruction, says nothing.

Then Jon’s eyes snap open. They look even darker than usual, with a nigh-feverish shine to them. Martin feels something swoop unpleasantly in his stomach, but does not protest as Jon drags him along.

Jon can hear the story calling to him. He follows its siren song, barely feeling Martin’s soft, warm arm underneath his hand.

He finds who he is looking for. He has never seen them before in his life, but he Knows them.

He pulls away from Martin then, his gaze intent on the other person’s face. They look at him a bit nervously, but Jon approaches anyway. Voice imperious, he demands, “Tell me what happened to you.”

“Wh-what?”

“ **Statement of Nova Thomas,** ” Jon says, eagerness sparking to life inside him. “ **Given second of March, 2016. Taken direct from subject.** ”

Nova stares at him, throat working for a moment, before beginning to speak.

As the person - Nova - speaks, Martin notices a change in Jon. He begins to stand a little straighter, a little more evenly like his leg isn’t bothering him so much anymore. He leans towards Nova, drinking in every detail they provide eagerly. He looks more and more like he is enjoying a good meal, gaunt cheeks even appearing to fill in a bit.

It’s scary.

It’s worse than scary, it’s  _ horrifying _ . For the first time since Martin has met him, Jon seems well and truly monstrous, growing as sated as a tick on the story-blood Nova is spilling out to him.

Martin wants to shake him, wants to scream at Nova to run, but he is also transfixed, a part of him eager to hear the end of the story. Jon’s words return unbidden to him,  _ you will not be able to look away from that which hurts. You will always watch, feeding your patron. _

Martin realizes what Jon had meant then. He understands Jon’s apprehension before binding him. If this is what it is like to be bound, well. Martin wishes he had the capacity to make a different choice, but it is too late.

It’s just far too late.


	10. the domestic nature of monstrosity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter in which the author rambles about food they like....

“Statement ends,” Jon says. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a tape recorder clicks off.

He feels much more lucid now. He also feels a certain dawning horror in his gut, but he tries to quash the feeling. He is used to being disgusted by his own actions. And if this is a step further than before, well. It’s not surprising for a monster like him.

Nova Thomas takes a cautious step back now that they are no longer being compelled. Then another, and another, and then they are running down the street away from him.

Each resounding footstep feels like a blow.

Then Jon notices his hand is still on Martin’s arm. He lets go, not looking at the other man. He takes a step of his own away. He’s sure he doesn’t want to see Martin’s expression right now.

If he could, he would leave Martin be. But Jane is still out there, angrier than ever, and Jon knows that if he leaves Martin alone now she will kill him. Still, Jon cannot bring himself to look at Martin.

Nothing is ever easy.

The person that Jon accosted and compelled is long gone by the time Martin can even begin to put his thoughts in order.

Jon is a monster: okay, so that is now abundantly clear. He apparently literally ate the fear of a random person and, if Martin’s nightmares are precedent, that person will relive the fear again that night. And Jon fed on them knowing this. 

...that’s why he hadn’t wanted Martin’s statement last night. So, okay. Jon apparently gives a shit about  _ Martin _ , but not other people? Is that because he actually cares about Martin, or is it because Martin is some sort of Eye underling, so Jon feels responsible or territorial or  _ something _ ?

Martin is - maybe not as bad as Jon, but not great either. He listened to the entire story, did nothing to stop Jon, and even kinda sorta enjoyed it? That’s not something Martin wants to examine too closely.

Martin jumps at the small sound of Jon clearing his throat. He looks over to him, but Jon’s gaze remains fixed on the swiftly darkening evening sky. After another moment, Jon says, “I would leave you be, but Jane is still very much a threat. As things stand, you need to remain in the Archives...or with me.”

“No,” Martin says. At the look on Jon’s face (who still won’t look back at him), Martin continues, “Wait. I don’t know. This whole thing - this is all so messed up! You realize that, right?”

At that, Jon’s mouth curves in a mirthless smile. “Yes, Martin. I do realize that.”

Martin crosses his arms, made more upset by Jon’s expression. “So you understand why I can’t just go home with you and act like nothing happened?”

Jon hangs his head a little, the curve of his lips arcing downward. “Of course,” he murmurs. “But at least allow me to escort you back to the Archives.”

But Martin shakes his head. “No, that’s not better. The Archives are still  _ you, _ aren’t they?”

“More like an extension, you could say. But Martin - “ and Martin jumps again, this time because Jon has grabbed onto his bicep, eyes searching his face with great intensity - “Martin, I understand you must be afraid, but you have to stay somewhere safe! I can only guarantee the safety of the Archives or my flat.”

Martin tries to shrug Jon off, but Jon’s grip remains firm. Martin stills and sighs, feeling horribly like he’s giving up. “Fine. Fine. I’ll stay with you at your flat, but you need to tell me what happened. Where did you go? Why -  _ how  _ did you get injured? What was this whole thing just now?”

And, Martin thinks but does not say, why do you seem to care about my safety?

Jon nods a few times, his widened eyes never leaving Martin’s face. “I’ll explain,” he agrees, finally releasing Martin’s arm. “You’re due that much at least.”

Before returning to his flat, Jon decides to make a stop. Not wanting to leave Martin on his own, he guides Martin into the grocery store with a couple furtive touches to his arms and upper back. Each time, Martin jumps or shudders. And each time he does so, Jon feels a bit more sick than before.

But a part of him really wants the reassurance that Martin is solid and real. It’s not so much that he thinks Martin is a figment of his imagination, but more that the man has stayed with him, despite seeing Jon in a somewhat more monstrous state. And Jon - Jon can’t quite believe that Martin is allowing him to be with him, to protect him.

“What are you picking up?” Martin asks, but his voice has a dull edge to it, like he doesn’t really care or want to know.

“I thought I’d cook,” Jon says by way of answer. “Have you ever had a tagine before?”

“A what?”

“A tagine - it is sort of like a Moroccan stew. I quite like them.”

Jon does not say that he finds tagines incredibly comforting, what with their warming spices and hearty ingredients. He just has a vague hope that maybe the dish will comfort Martin as it sometimes does for him.

It is something of a revelation to Martin that Jon cooks. He watches from Jon’s small dining table as Jon reties his hair into a high ponytail and puts on an apron, a sensible cream colored item with thin navy stripes. Jon moves with confidence as he begins chopping vegetables. For a moment, Martin wonders if onions bother Jon more or less now, connected with an entity called the Eye after all.

He wonders a little less as Jon blinks tears from his eyes, takes off his glasses, and wipes his face on his upper arm sleeve.

As he preps, Jon rambles about tagines, and how a tagine should actually be cooked in a special pot also called a tagine, but seeing how he hates items with a single use, he is making do with a dutch oven instead.

Martin only half pays attention, watching as Jon heats olive oil in the pot before beginning to add vegetables. 

Jon is still wearing the same clothes as before, complete with his cut trousers. Martin’s gaze flicks down to Jon’s leg, but he cannot see the injuries below the gauze. Martin guesses that the injuries are likely still there, because Jon has started to favor the leg again. Nothing like before, but just a little, just enough to notice.

Finally, Jon adds a few more ingredients, including a vegetable broth. He covers the pot with its lid and comes over to sit across the table from Martin. “That needs to simmer a while. Now. What do you want me to tell you first?”

Martin’s mouth suddenly feels dry. He takes a sip of water, but that does nothing to assuage his discomfort. So he says, “I want to know why. Why you -  _ went after _ that person and took their statement.”

“I took Nova Thomas’s statement because I was starving. To exist as I do, I need to feed Beholding. This usually takes the form of reading written statements, imprinting them on my mind. But I was injured and had used my power more heavily than usual, so I had to seek out something more...substantial. Fresh.” Jon’s mouth twists. “I didn’t know it would be like that either. I’ve never...I’ve never.”

“What do you mean, you’ve never?”

Jon’s lips press into a thin line before he speaks. “I’ve never taken a statement from a human being so aggressively. I didn’t even realize that was something I could do, or that I would  _ need _ it.”

Jon looks so upset by this pronouncement that Martin decides to change the subject, if only a little. “How did you get injured? With, um, before, you bled but you healed almost immediately. What changed?”

Jon relaxes marginally. “It seems that wounds made by avatars of other entities do not heal like regular injuries,” he explains. “I...might have confronted Jane Prentiss, and she managed to harm me.”

“You went after  _ Jane Prentiss _ ?” Martin shrieks. Jon flinches, so Martin lowers his voice as he continues, “Why? It wasn’t because of - it wasn’t because of  _ me _ , was it?”

Jon rubs the back of his neck. “Not...entirely. Her treatment of you was a factor, true, but I needed to talk to her anyway. In...my timeline, she attacked the Archives a few months after trapping you. I needed to understand why. The timing doesn’t make sense for a grudge - she knows I’m not Gertrude, and if it were against the Archives as a whole, why show her hand and attack you beforehand? It just doesn’t make any sense. Now that I had a way to contact her via the phone she stole from you, I thought it best to try and get some answers. Such as they were.”

Martin sits there and processes for a minute while Jon glances periodically at his kitchen timer. Finally, Martin says slowly, “So Jane is going to attack the Archives at some point. Did she tell you why?”

“She said that she was told to do so. In order to mark me with Corruption.”

“What does that mean - to mark you with Corruption?”

“Jane serves Corruption, the Crawling Rot, Filth. It is the entity to do with all that disgusts us. When she attacked me, her worms crawled inside me - “ at whatever look must be on Martin’s face, Jon adds hurriedly, “I got them all out. Tip from, well, you. A small corkscrew is the perfect implement for digging out worms.”

Martin feels ill.

“And well, close interactions with an entity’s power like that mark you for life. So she succeeded, I guess. But I don’t know  _ why _ she decided to go along with whoever told her to mark me.” Jon sits back with a sigh. “What I do know is now she is, ah, incandescently angry with me, and she will likely attack the Archives anyway despite her success.”

“Great,” Martin says flatly, his tone belied by the pallor of his face. “So I’m...great, okay. And this probably sounds like a horrible question, but apart from it being our job, why should we care about the Archives?”

Jon digs his nails into his palms, just to feel the little bite of pain. Slowly, he says, “You...don’t, not really, despite being bound to Beholding. For you, the weaker Beholding is, the better, almost certainly. It will not be able to control you as well if it is weakened.”

“I sense a but coming.”

Jon shrinks in on himself a bit. “I am the Archivist. That is my...purpose. If the Archives do not exist, then I will surely die. And although it would be no loss for the world to lose another monster, I have no particular desire to die. Especially if I am to stop any of the apocalypse rituals.”

“Well, I don’t want you  _ dead _ ,” Martin says quietly. Jon notices that he says nothing about Jon’s monstrousness, one way or another. Probably for the best. Even if it is true, he doesn’t want to hear Martin agree that he is a monster.

The kitchen timer rings, and Jon gratefully gets up to continue cooking.

Dinner is served in plain white bowls, made somewhat exciting by the presence of colorful paper napkins. They are large squares with rainbow stripes, reminding Martin of a pride flag. When he raises a questioning eyebrow in Jon’s direction, Jon flushes a little and explains, “A...friend of mine, she got me those a while ago. To celebrate my...well. Not important. I just haven’t cooked much lately, so I didn’t have occasion to use them.”

“To celebrate what?” Martin asks, curious.

If anything, Jon’s cheeks darken even more, and he frowns. “My transition,” he says shortly.

“Oh.” Martin looks down at the napkin again. “But these are rainbow, not the trans pride colors?”

“These are meant to be a bit more general,” Jon explains. He hasn’t sat down yet, though his dinner awaits him on the table.

Martin sighs at him. “Come on, sit down and eat.” Jon takes a stiff step towards the chair but does not sit. “No, really. I’m not - I’m really not the sort of person who would be weird about that.”

Especially, Martin thinks, after all this. Jon being trans is like the least hard thing to accept, not even a blip on the radar - but Martin doesn’t think it would help to say that.

Jon scrutinizes Martin, but apparently detecting no lie, he sits. Martin chances a smile at him, but it is not returned. Not like Martin would have expected that, exactly, but a smile from Jon would be nice. A true one. 

Martin takes a bite of his tagine. “...oh.”

Jon tenses. “Do you not like it?”

“It’s really warm and nice and - it’s really good, Jon.”

At that, Jon finally smiles. 


	11. whether one should open the door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after this chapter or the next, there will definitely be a slow down (as you might expect if you've stuck with me through multichapter fic before). I'm still figuring out where things are going to go, so please bear with me! 
> 
> Oh, and if you want a good tagine recipe, try the Mediterranean Dish's Easy Moroccan Vegetable Tagine recipe. I've made it a couple times and it's been a hit with my loved ones each time.

After dinner, Martin feels marginally calmer. Well, maybe more than marginally. He’s not an idiot or anything, but a large part of him feels that a cold-hearted monster could not make a meal like this. And hey, he has to trust someone. A delicious stew-adjacent meal is as good a reason as any.

Martin gets up and puts his bowl and utensils in the sink. He turns to look back at Jon, who is picking at the last couple bites of his meal. “So, what now?” Martin asks.

Jon sets down his fork and rubs his temples. “To be honest, I don’t really know. I didn’t really have a plan when I confronted Jane, and now I have no idea when she will attack.”

“What  _ do  _ you know?”

“Not enough,” Jon growls, his voice obviously frustrated. Then he sighs. “I could try to Know more, but…”

Martin doesn’t miss the emphasis on the word  _ know _ , which turns it into a capital  _ K Know _ . “What do you mean by that?  _ Know _ more?”

Jon appears to shrink in his chair. In a dull voice, he answers, “As the Archivist, the Eye can tell me certain things. It’s nothing like reading minds, like Elias does,” he adds, glancing up at Martin. He looks away again. “It’s like there’s a door in my head. Behind it is everything I could ever want to know...or not want to know, as the case may be. But while I have the ability to open the door, I don’t have the capacity to withstand the knowledge that would come through it.”

“So, if you open the door, what happens?”

“I drown,” Jon says simply. Then, he adds, “I’d certainly lose everything that still makes me Jonathan and not the Archivist. And I - I just can’t let that happen.” He draws his arms around himself, looking for all the world like he’s trying to give himself a hug.

Martin wants to offer one, wants to offer some modicum of comfort to this sad, strange man. And oh, he’s thinking of him as a man again, rather than a monster or a thing. Martin doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not, but looking at Jon now, hunched in on himself, Martin doesn’t quite care.

He walks over to Jon and leans down to wrap his arms around him. 

Jon stiffens immediately, but Martin doesn’t let go. He’d let go if Jon told him to get off or if he tried to squirm out of Martin’s grasp, but Jon does neither. Instead, he lets out a shuddery exhale and very slowly relaxes into Martin’s embrace. 

Jon doesn’t expect anything but fear and revulsion from Martin. He certainly does not expect for Martin to come over to him and hug him. 

It’s...hard to accept.

The comfort offered, the sweetness of the gesture...it’s hard to accept that these things are directed at  _ him _ . Jon has spent so much time distrusting and being distrusted in return, has spent even longer pushing everyone away - 

So why now? Why, why when he has shown himself to be a monster does Martin want to touch him, let alone embrace him? 

Why?

He just doesn’t understand at all.

And maybe that’s what starts it. He doesn’t even realize that he’s begun to cry until a cool tear runs down his nose and falls off. It’s not very dramatic - Jon has always been a quiet crier - but it shocks him. He wants to bury his head in his hands and hide, but Martin’s arms are in the way. Even so, Jon doesn’t want to make the other man let go of him, his reasoning being that then Martin would surely see.

So Jon ducks his head, resting his face against Martin’s warm, sweater-clad arms.

His shoulders shake, and he is  _ sure  _ that Martin notices, but if he does, his only reaction is to draw Jon in more tightly.

A few more tears fall, some of them landing on Jon’s glasses. He knows that will be annoying to clean later - tears  _ smear _ \- but he can’t quite bring himself to stop.

After a long time, Jon breaks the embrace by leaning forward. Martin lets go and steps back. Only now does he begin to feel embarrassed. What had he been thinking - oh god, what if Jon  _ hates  _ him now - 

But Jon doesn’t yell at him. Instead, without looking up at Martin, he takes off his glasses and scrubs at his face with his cardigan sleeve. Martin glances at the glasses, which Jon set on the table, and notices with surprise that there are drops of water on the glasses.

Not water.  _ Tears _ .

That is another mark for Jon being a non-monster, Martin decides. He doubts that monsters truly cry.

If Knowing too much would make Jon lose this part of himself or more, Martin doesn’t want to see that happen. Jon is probably a good person, Martin thinks. Not a human-person, but a person all the same. 

“Jon,” Martin begins, then stops, unsure of himself.

“Yes, Martin?” Jon asks, voice just a bit nasal and rough from his crying. He moves onto cleaning his glasses with the bottom hem of his cardigan.

“I hope you’re able to stay Jon.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jon says, the raw tone dissolving into exasperation. “There’s no point to leaving London right now.”

But Martin shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I mean. I hope you’re able to continue to be yourself. You - I really think you’re a good person.”

“You don’t know enough about me to make that determination,” Jon tells him quietly. He sounds so grave that Martin wants to hug him again, just to bring him out of that coldness and back to openness.

“Maybe not,” Martin agrees. “But I’d like to know you well enough. And even though I don’t know you well yet, I’ve seen enough of you to believe that you are good.”

Jon shakes his head, as emphatic as Martin has ever seen him. “You can’t! You shouldn’t try to know me - I’m not - fuck!” He smacks his uninjured thigh with the flat of his palm. 

Martin cries out at that, taking a small step forward towards Jon. “Please don’t hurt yourself!”

“It doesn’t - look,” Jon says, exhaling through his teeth. “You’re staying here with me because it is safer, not because I’m trying to, hell, I don’t know, convert you to my side or something. I don’t  _ want  _ to involve you in this any more than you already are. The things that are coming, they will change you. More than I’ve already forced you to change by binding you to Beholding.”

“Will I become like you?” Martin asks, a tiny tendril of curiosity drawing him to the question.

“I hope not, but I don’t - the more you stay out of it, the better, alright?” Jon grips his uninjured thigh with his hand. “ _ Please _ .”

“Jon.” Martin walks back to Jon, this time kneeling by his side to look up at him, searching him for answers to questions he doesn’t know how to form. “I’m not going to leave you to deal with monsters and, and  _ apocalypse rituals _ all on your own. That’s not right. I’m already here. I’m already involved.”

Jon doesn’t reply. He just digs his fingers into his leg. It looks painful, like he’s trying to bruise himself.

Carefully, Martin wraps his hands around Jon’s, pulling gently so that he cannot grip his leg anymore. He turns Jon’s hand around, so the palm faces up. Then he rubs the fleshier parts of Jon’s hand with his thumbs.

Slowly, some of the tension drains away from Jon’s posture. “You shouldn’t - “ he begins, but his voice is weak. Martin ignores him, just continues to rub and watch as more tension falls away.

Once Jon is about as relaxed as Martin has ever seen him, he lets go and stands up. “Come on,” Martin says. “It’s pretty early still, so let’s find something to watch. I’m guessing you like documentaries?”

The two of them end up settled on Jon’s couch, blanket draped over their laps. Jon lets Martin choose the show, and he picks Anthony Bourdain’s  _ Parts Unknown _ . Jon wonders if this is because one of the few interests Martin now knows he has is cooking. He does in fact enjoy the show, but even so, he begins to grow drowsy.

Jon refuses to sleep, however.

For one thing, he’s sure it would be weird for Martin to have his boss fall asleep next to him or - god forbid - on his shoulder or something. 

For another, he knows he will be seeing Nova Thomas again that night if he does sleep. If it had been someone who had willingly given a statement, Jon might have had fewer compunctions about making them revisit their horrors (he does have to sleep  _ sometimes _ , after all). But Nova had not had a choice - he had compelled them. There was no consent given, and Jon feels almost dirty knowing that if he sleeps he will force them to relive the statement yet again.

He can’t sleep. He won’t sleep.

It doesn’t matter that Martin’s eyes keep closing, or that his are following suit.

“Martin,” he says, jostling Martin’s shoulder. “Martin.”

“Hmmm?” Martin answers sleepily.

“Go to bed,” Jon tells him.

“Right...okay.”

Jon watches silently as Martin pulls himself together enough to collapse in Jon’s bed. When Martin reaches the bedroom door, he pauses and looks back. “Night, Jon.”

For some reason, Jon feels a little surprised, even a bit flustered. He tamps down on the feeling and says, “Good night, Martin.”

Martin nods and disappears into the bedroom. Jon waits a little more, listening to the sounds of Martin getting ready to sleep. Soon, all is silent. Jon sighs.

Then he settles in with a book for a sleepless night.


	12. what is to be done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this chapter was a bit rough to write for several reasons. A, Elias is impossible to write???? B, my mental health has been in the dumpster recently, so writing has gotten substantially more difficult. C, I'm only just figuring out where the story is going next, so ending this chapter was a little hard without knowing that. But I am indeed figuring it out, so hopefully it won't be super long before the next chapter is up?? We shall see.

When Martin wakes up, he is surprised to realize that he had no dreams. Not any of his usual anxiety dreams, nor anything to do with being watched. He lies in bed for a minute, wondering if the nightmare of the night before had been a fluke or if the nightmare stuff was a one time thing. Whatever the case may be, he certainly feels better rested than before.

Eventually he gets up, suppressing a yawn, and wanders out, in search of tea. When he exits the bedroom, Jon is still on the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table. He’s reading. There are a couple books stacked on the table that weren’t there before.

“Jon,” Martin begins, then pauses when Jon’s head jerks up in surprise. “Jon - did you  _ sleep _ ?”

Jon shifts and looks away. If that wasn’t answer enough, Martin can tell that the shadows under Jon’s eyes are darker than they had been the previous day. 

Martin walks over to the couch. “You didn’t. Why not?”

“I…” Jon shuts the book and places it in his lap. “I didn’t want to...intrude more than I already had. On Nova Thomas, I mean. They didn’t ask to give their statement - if I sleep, I’ll make them relive it again and again.”

Martin sighs and sits on the couch next to Jon, who shifts away just slightly. “You’re going to have to sleep sometime. Can’t you just  _ not _ invade people’s dreams?”

Jon frowns. “I don’t have any control over the dreams. I’m just stuck there, watching as - as awful things happen. And I can’t do anything about any of it.”

“Oh.” Martin sucks in a breath. “That sounds...horrible, actually. You can’t do anything about it?”

“I can just not sleep,” Jon says, a hint of a wry smile on his face.

Martin gives him an exaggerated frown. “That’s not a solution! Look, Jon, I’m not going to try and tell you what to do, but humans have to sleep.”

“I’m not human, Martin.”

“Well, I’m guessing even Eldritch abominations do too, for you certainly have the bags under your eyes to prove that.”

At that, Jon barks out a short laugh. It seems to surprise him as much as Martin, as he immediately snaps his mouth shut, looking a bit embarrassed.

Martin shakes his head, feeling inexplicably fond. “Do you have any espresso powder? I can make a half-decent dirty chai from home, and I know you have chai. If you’re not going to sleep, we might as well caffeinate you.”

They reach the Archives at Jon’s usual early hour. Despite not having slept, Jon feels alert. Although some of that is attributable to the dirty chai Martin made, Jon has a suspicion that some of it can be traced to the coerced statement he had taken the night before.

It’s just as well, Jon decides. Now that Jon knows for sure that Jane will attack the Archives at some point, a conversation with Elias is unavoidable. They will need to replace the fire suppression system with CO2 in order to kill her when she comes. Furthermore, making room in the budget for more fire extinguishers would not be amiss.

So, after leaving Martin in the assistant office, he heads upstairs to face Elias. 

The door to Elias’s office is open, as if expecting him. Jon shakes off that thought - Elias cannot see the future as far as he knows - and knocks politely on the doorframe.

“Come in.”

It’s odd, how now that Jon knows that Elias is a murderer with powers thanks to the Eye, that his voice sounds so much more...oily. Slick. Like a trap.

Jon enters. He stands in front of Elias’s desk, but does not sit in the waiting chair.

“Jon,” Elias says, setting aside a pen. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We need to change the fire suppression system in the Archives,” Jon says. “And we need to stock up on CO2 fire extinguishers.”

Elias raises an eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with the current system? As far as I am aware, it is not out of date.”

Jon carefully chooses his next words. “We have discovered in our research that Jane Prentiss and her worms can be exterminated using CO2. Considering her recent siege on Martin, and the increasing presence of worms in the area, it seems prudent to be prepared in case of attack.”

“Hmm.”

Jon tries to keep his expression neutral, but it’s difficult. There is no such research - as far as Jon remembers, the first they learned of CO2 being valuable against the Corruption was when Sasha encountered Timothy Hodge.

“Fine,” Elias acquiesces at last. “I will call in for a replacement to the fire suppression system - to CO2, you said? Yes, I will do that as soon as we are done here.”

Jon shifts his weight, trying to keep it off his injured leg without looking too much like he’s cocking his hip. “ _ Are _ we done here?”

“Not quite.” Elias smiles, but as usual the smile does not touch his eyes. They remain cold, fixed on Jon’s face. “Tell me, Archivist, how did you get injured last night?”

Jon can feel his spine stiffen. Slowly, he says, “I thought I should take a look at Martin’s flat, to see if there was any evidence that would be useful against Jane Prentiss. When I arrived, she was there - I was lucky to escape as intact as I was.”

“...I see.” Elias rests his chin in one hand, propping his elbow on his desk. “Tell me, why is it that I don’t quite believe you?”

Jon clasps his hands behind his back, so that he can dig his short nails into his wrist without Elias seeing. “I don’t know,” he answers, doing his best to keep his voice level. “Why is that?”

“Well, you see, there are several reasons.” Elias stands, pressing his palms flat onto his desk. Then he begins to walk around it, making his somewhat circuitous way towards Jon. His movements remind Jon of a predator stalking prey. “For one, you consider yourself the Archivist, not the Head Archivist, don’t you? And don’t think it didn’t escape my attention that you went after Martin when Jane trapped him. Furthermore, something is... _ off _ about him now, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Oh, but you are even stranger, aren’t you? You took a live statement that wasn’t yours to have, didn’t you?”

Jon tries not to grit his teeth. He fails, having to push his words out through a tense jaw. “What. Do you. Want.”

Elias paints a vague look of surprise on his face. “Why, I just want to understand! That’s all. I want to  _ know _ .”

“I don’t have any answers for you,” Jon snaps. He makes to leave, but Elias’s hand shoots out and grabs him by the arm, near the small indentations from Jon’s nails on his wrist. “Let go of me!”

Surprisingly, Elias does. He raises his hands and smiles again, that cold, dead smile. “You’ve become so very  _ fascinating _ . Very well. I will have the fire suppression system changed immediately, and I’ll have accounting put in for some more fire extinguishers for the Archives. You’re free to go.”

Jon exits, practically at a run.

Martin looks up from his laptop at the sound of hurried footsteps down the hallway. He gets up and goes out into the hall to see what’s going on, and is nearly run into by Jon.

Jon looks...not great. He doesn’t appear physically unwell or tired, but his eyes have a wild cast to them and his mouth is pressed in a very thin line. He barely manages to stop before crashing into Martin, and Martin can almost hear his shoes screech as he brakes.

“Whoa, what happened?” Martin cries, reaching out his hands to steady Jon. Jon steps back, just out of reach, and Martin stands there with his hands still raised. Slowly, he lowers them, asking, “What’s the matter?”

“Elias is,” Jon grimaces. “He knows - something. I don’t know, I don’t think he realizes I’m not from this time, but he’s figured out that I’m more than I should be.”

A sick feeling worms its way into Martin’s gut. “Oh...that doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not.”

Jon’s shoulders slump. He’s not sure what to say or do except maybe repeat the hug from last night, when a voice says, “Is something going on?”

“Oh, hello, Sasha,” Martin says. Jon turns and nods at her.

Sasha rests her hands on her hips and looks between them. “Seriously though, you both look like you’ve seen a ghost or something! What’s going on?”

Martin looks to Jon, who gives a stiff shrug and says, “Talking to Elias is...draining. But it had to be done,if we are to change the fire suppression system in advance of anything happening with Jane Prentiss.”

“Ugh, I had to squish one of those silvery worms on my way over this morning.” Sasha shudders dramatically. Then she cocks her head and asks, “But what does that have to do with the fire suppression system?”

Martin watches as Jon explains the effect of CO2 on the worms. He notices that as he talks, Jon appears to calm a little. It’s good to see. If anything, Martin gets the sense that Jon likes to educate others about things he’s interested in, even if it has to do with Jane Prentiss and her worms.

Ick.


	13. an unclear warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, a chapter in which Jon tries his best but his piss poor people skills stand in the way. AKA most chapters of this fic it seems, oops

“Sasha? Can I speak to you in my office please?”

Jon watches as Sasha nods, looking a bit confused. Before she’s even had a chance to stand, he retreats to his office and sits heavily in his chair. Jon bites the inside of his cheek, worrying it. He doesn’t bite hard enough to taste blood, but it does hurt.

Sasha enters with a knock. Jon waves her in. Sasha comes in, closes the door behind her, and sits in the armchair without prompting. “What did you need me for?”

“I need…” Jon murmurs, then says to Sasha, “Have you seen a man who, ah, has curly blond hair, an awful laugh, and strange hands?”

Sasha blinks and cocks her head. “...no? Should I have?”

Jon sighs, feeling a bit relieved. “That’s - that’s good then. If you do see him, avoid him. And if he does talk to you, don’t trust a thing he says.”

“What’s all this about? Who is this guy?”

“His name - well. His name isn’t important. The important thing is that he’s dangerous, okay? You need to stay away.”

Sasha crosses her arms. “Okay, fine. Strange man with strange hands is dangerous, stay the hell away, got it. What I  _ don’t _ understand is how you know this. Or why you’re warning me and not the others.”

Jon had seen this turn of the conversation coming, but he still doesn’t feel prepared to answer. He knows he could have just not told her anything, let her run into Michael on her own with no warning, but he worries that to have done so could have gotten her killed. Better to deal with an uncomfortable conversation and give Sasha more of a fighting chance than the alternative.

Still.

Jon bites at his raw cheek again. After a long moment, he says, “Trust me when I say I cannot explain how I know this. And I am warning you because...you’re the one he is most likely to be interested in by far.”

“Why me?”

Jon shakes his head slowly. “To be honest, I actually don’t know the answer to that question. But if he contacts anyone, it will be you.”

Jon’s best guess is that Sasha has, of the Archives staff, a personality best suited to the Spiral, but he doesn’t know her well enough to be sure. Too many of his memories of her are clouded by NotSasha, and he hasn’t spent much time with his assistants in the last few months.

Well. Apart from Martin, but then the man is living with him for now.

As far as Jon can tell, Sasha looks frustrated. There’s a crease to her forehead and her lips are in a tight frown. 

But eventually she nods. “Fine. I’ll stay away from any weird men fitting your description - I mean, as a general rule I do stay away from weird men anyway, but I’ll keep an eye out for him. Is that it?”

“Yes. You may go.”

Sasha nods again, this time with a definitive jerk, before standing and exiting the office. The door closes behind her with a heavy thud, and Jon promptly buries his head in his hands.

“Well, that was weird,” Sasha announces as she reenters the assistant office. Martin looks up as she crosses the room to her desk and sits, sighing loudly.

“What’s the matter?” Martin asks.

“Jon,” Sasha answers. Then, she appears to consider and continues, “Well, nothing’s  _ wrong _ with him exactly, but he was really weird just now.”

“Weird how?” Tim asks, coming over to lean on Sasha’s desk. While the tone of his voice sounds normal enough, Martin can see that something in Tim’s face has gone hard. To be honest, it scares Martin a little bit, because Tim usually seems so cheerful. And to see that poorly suppressed anger directed at  _ Jon _ , well. It makes Martin uneasy.

Sasha shrugs. “It was a bunch of little things. He gave me this cryptic warning about a guy who might contact me in the future. I have no idea who he was talking about, but apparently this person is dangerous and I should stay away from him. When I asked why he only warned me, he said that the man would be most likely to be interested in me? But he couldn’t explain why. Nor could he explain how he knew anything about this at all. And, seriously, I don’t know, but it felt like Jon knew something he wasn’t telling me.”

“Hmm.” Tim frowns. “He has always been a know-it-all, that much is  _ definitely  _ true. But that sounds - “ He cuts himself off and shakes his head. Then he looks up at Martin, who feels a bit deer in the headlights under the pressure of his stare. “You’ve been living with him these last couple weeks. He say anything about this to you?”

Martin realizes gratefully that he can answer honestly: “No, he hasn’t said anything about any dangerous people. Except Jane Prentiss, I guess? But she’s not a man.”

Martin isn’t sure how well he can lie about the rest of it, about the time travel and Jon’s inhuman nature, about Beholding and Corruption and the mysterious apocalypse ritual that Jon has avoided explaining further. It all weighs heavily on his mind, but he can’t talk about it with anyone. These aren’t his secrets to share, and Jon has a tendency to clam up when asked anything about the horrors he knows so much about.

Sometimes Martin wishes he had a therapist, like seriously. 

But then, how could he explain any of this to a therapist? It’s not like they’d be any better equipped to handle worm hive women or fear devouring bosses. Christ.

“Huh,” Tim is saying. “I don’t like this whole cryptic warning business. It doesn’t sit right with me.”

“It doesn’t sit right with me either,” Sasha responds. She sighs again. “I don’t know. Jon seems like an alright person from, y’know, what little I’ve actually seen of him, but something about this felt really off.”

Tim looks at Martin again. “Martin, you probably know him best right now. What do you think?”

“I think - “ Martin begins, then swallows. He tries again, “I think...Jon is doing his best. I believe he's a genuinely good person, alright? But he’s under a lot of stress with the Head Archivist job and trying to figure out what Prentiss might do or where she is. I’m sure he’s trying to look out for you, but, hmm. But I don’t think he always goes about it the right way? Like, he tried to warn me before I looked into Carlos Vittery, but he, um, upset me so I didn’t listen. And then Prentiss came after me. I guess what I’m saying is he’s trying. He really is.”

“How did he know there would be an issue with the Vittery case?” Sasha asks. She doesn’t sound accusatory, just curious.

Tim, on the other hand, has a distinctly accusatory note in his voice when he says, “Did he know Prentiss was connected to the Vittery case?”

Martin raises his hands as if trying to ward off Tim and Sasha’s inquisition. “I don’t know! I really, really don’t.” To be fair, Martin never did clarify with Jon, but he’s pretty sure Jon’s knowledge about the consequences of the Vittery case came from the future. “Oh, but Sasha, I really think you should listen to him. About whoever this guy is. If Jon says he’s dangerous, he probably is.”

Sasha nods thoughtfully. Then she says, “I mean, as I told Jon, I tend to avoid weird guys anyway. I’m not going to go seeking him out.”

“Right,” Martin says. Still feeling uncomfortable, he asks, “Do you want some tea? I was thinking I’d make some.”

Jon raises his head as there is a knock at his door. “Come in.”

Martin enters, carrying a small tray with two mugs of tea on it. One of them Jon recognizes as the Institute mug he usually uses, but he doesn’t recognize the one with the cat on it. He assumes however that the cat mug belongs to Martin, and is proven correct when Martin sets down Jon’s mug in its habitual place and then sits across from him, hands wrapped around the cat mug.

“What is it?” Jon asks, curling his fingers around his mug. It is pleasantly warm, even a little soothing. 

Martin looks a little nervous as he answers, “Sasha told us that you gave her a bit of a...cryptic warning. She didn’t get into it, but she definitely seemed a bit weirded out?” Although not stated like a question, the tone of his voice rises and turns it into one.

Jon nods. “Yes. Yes, I did. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by that sort of reaction.”

“No, probably not,” Martin agrees, just a bit sharply. Then his voice softens a little as he asks, “What are you planning to do?”

“About what?”

Martin’s fingers trace the edge of his mug. “If she doesn’t heed your warning for whatever reason. If something happens. If she has questions. Will you...will you tell her the truth?”

“About my being from the future, you mean?” Jon asks. When Martin nods, Jon leans back in his chair. He pries himself away from the still steaming mug of tea as he does so. He doesn’t need the comfort, shouldn’t need it.

Even so, it feels like a loss.

Jon sighs. “I’d rather not. I don’t want to bind anyone else to Beholding, but I would have to if she knew. And - well. I don’t - no. As the case may be, I might have to divulge more information to her later on. It might be the only way.”

Martin notices with a sickening lurch that Jon’s complexion has grown ashen. Even so, Martin asks, “The only way?”

Jon shakes his head. He looks almost as if he is about to be sick. Martin almost regrets pressing, but the lack of answers he’s been given are driving him up the wall. “What do you mean, the only way?”

“I mean…” Jon’s voice is suddenly hoarse. He even appears to crumple in on himself as he speaks. “I mean that with the opportunity of being in the past again, there are certain things I seek to change. Crises -  _ disasters _ \- I seek to avert.”

“And something to do with Sasha is one of them?”

Jon’s mouth presses downward into a frown. He doesn’t answer, but that is an answer in and of itself.

“Does it have to do with this mystery man?”

Jon barks out a short, painful-sounding laugh. “No, it’s something much - much more - no. It does not.”

Martin can feel himself growing more and more frustrated. “I really wish you would just tell me what’s going on! I can’t help if you don’t ever tell me anything!”

Martin doesn’t even realize he’s standing until he sees Jon look up at him helplessly. “I’m sorry, Martin. But I don’t - I don’t want you to have to bear the same things I have borne. It - it  _ ruins _ you. I don’t want to see that happen. Not when I could stop it.”

All Martin can hear is that Jon doesn’t trust him, doesn’t believe in him. Doesn't think he can handle what Jon can handle. And it  _ hurts _ .

So Martin just shakes his head and leaves, just barely having the presence of mind to pick up his tea and tray on the way out. He doesn’t slam the door, but it’s a near thing.

In his office, Jon buries his head in his hands again.


	14. uncertainty of stagnation

That night, Martin is silent as Jon cooks dinner. The silence is  _ not _ comfortable, but Jon doesn’t know what to say or do to break it. So he continues sauteing the vegetables, biting that same sore spot on the inside of his cheek.

Eventually:

“Jon.”

Martin’s voice is quiet, but in the dead silence of the flat it startles Jon. He nearly drops his spoon, but manages to set it down on the spoon rest without incident. He turns. Martin isn’t looking at him; instead he is staring fixedly at the table. Jon takes a breath before asking, “Yes?”

“You don’t trust me.” It’s not a question.

“Martin - “

“You don’t trust me,” Martin says again, voice rising. He looks up at Jon then and maybe - maybe there is something of Beholding in him because his gaze is positively burning. “I don’t understand what I have to do to get you to talk to me. To let me in.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you - “ Jon starts, but then he stops. He’s not sure what to say. As a general rule, he does trust Martin. But does he trust Martin not to break under the weight of the world’s horror?

He doesn’t know.

“It’s just so much,” Jon finishes lamely.

“If it’s ‘so much’ like you say, then isn’t it better to ease off some of the pressure? To drain some of that away by talking?” Martin asks. Jon can hear the silent  _ by talking to me _ hidden behind his words.

Jon hesitates. It is in fact true that discussing some of it might help. To let the horrors out of his head and into the light of day. But he doesn’t know for sure, and can he risk Martin’s wellbeing for his own?

No. He can’t. That’s wrong. He can’t do that.

Jon bites his lip. In an effort to disguise his anxiety, he leans against the counter in a way that he hopes looks casual. 

“...I don’t know,” he says at last. “I can’t - to put this on you would be cruel. It could hurt you very badly. I can’t do that. I - I can’t.”

“Don’t use my wellbeing as an excuse, Jon. Say what you actually mean.” Martin’s voice is just short of steely, and Jon flinches, just a little. 

“It’s not an  _ excuse _ , Martin. I am truly, honestly - um. I’m  _ afraid _ . I’m afraid that what I know could break you - it certainly broke me. I can’t do that to anyone else.”

“Jon.” Martin’s voice has softened now. “Look at me.”

Jon hadn’t even realized he was staring at the floor, an awful off-white linoleum. He peels his stare up from the region of his feet and looks at Martin. Martin is a bit pale, but he looks determined - and above all, he looks kind.

In an odd way, the sight breaks Jon’s heart.

Jon looks away again, noticing how the knuckles of his hands have whitened as he grips the kitchen counter.

“Jon,” Martin says again, insistent.

Reluctantly, Jon looks at him again.

This time, when Martin catches his gaze, he smiles. It’s a small smile, but Jon thinks it’s genuine, what with the way it crinkles the corners of Martin’s eyes.

“I don’t know what to say,” Martin admits. “But I do know that it wouldn’t be wrong of you to talk to me, if you need to. I won’t break. I know you well enough to know that you wouldn’t let that happen. I want - I want to help. I can’t just be sitting here drinking tea while you put your health and safety on the line. You just need to trust me.”

And strangely enough, Jon’s can feel his heart swell with warmth as he realizes, “I do trust you, Martin.”

There’s something in Jon’s face as he says he trusts him that makes Martin truly believe him. There is a certain radiance in the way his eyes widen and his cheeks flush. He’s vulnerable in a beautiful way - though Martin doesn’t know if Jon would like that word or not, so he tries not to think of it too much.

Martin doesn’t know if he wants to hug the man or kiss him or just sit there and proclaim his love - oh god, he doesn’t love Jon, does he? That’s not something he wants to think about, not when it’s almost certainly unrequited and he’s sitting at Jon’s diminutive dining table with his eyes on him.

At last, Martin manages to say, “Thank you. For trusting me.”

“Yes. Well.” Martin can see how Jon struggles to hide his vulnerable openness behind his cold facade again. He doesn’t quite succeed. Then Jon turns abruptly back to his vegetables, which have begun to smoke.

Martin tries not to smile and fails. Even if dinner is ruined because of him, even if Jon doesn’t open up immediately, Martin feels sure that something has begun to shift.

“You did  _ what?! _ ”

“It’s not like I sought him out, Jon! Michael found me, and he wouldn’t leave until I talked to him.”

“You couldn’t - I don’t know - run?” Jon asks, frustratedly pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Not when he was blocking the way to my flat. Look, I would have heeded your warning if I could.” Sasha sighs. “Do you want me to make a statement or not?”

“...yes.”

Martin finds Jon in the aftermath of Sasha’s statement. He’s shaking, head buried in his arms, hands bent over his head in a protective manner. Martin wants to reach out a hand to steady him, but he doesn’t know how Jon would react, so he doesn’t.

“What happened? Sasha gave her statement, right?” Martin asks gently.

Jon starts. Martin feels that he did the right thing in not touching him. Jon blinks at him, glasses askew. “Oh. Martin. Yes, um, yes, she did.”

“What’s wrong? She seems fine.”

“Yes, she does indeed seem fine.” Jon sounds distracted.

“So what’s the matter?” Martin prompts. “Remember, you can trust me.”

“I know,” Jon says. He takes his glasses off to rub at his eyes. The amount of force he’s using to do so looks uncomfortable to Martin, but he doesn’t comment. Eyes still hidden by his hands, Jon says, “Things aren’t really different.”

“What do you mean?” Martin asks.

“Compared to my timeline, the major events are all occurring in nearly the same manner; only small details are different. I’m worried that - that no matter what I do it’ll come to nothing. Sasha will still - Tim will - what’s the point of any of this if I can’t  _ change anything? _ ”

With this last, Jon finally removes his hands from his eyes and glares furiously, helplessly forward into nothing. Into the future only he can see.

“Jon, I...I don’t think that’s true,” Martin says hesitantly.

Jon turns to him, and the full weight of the pain in his gaze lands on Martin, who gasps under the pressure of it. He’s shaking suddenly, trembling violently, feeling like he might be ill. 

And then, abruptly, the pain is gone. Martin is left panting as Jon buries his head in his arms again.

Although he desperately wants to ask  _ what the hell was that _ , Martin just repeats, “I really don’t think that’s true.”

Finally Jon asks in a voice muffled by his arms, “How so?” 

“Well, how did I get away from Jane’s, uh, siege on my flat before? Did you rescue me?”

“No, ah, I didn’t know you were trapped. You were there about a fortnight before you managed to escape on your own.”

Martin shudders. He doubts he ever has enough food in his flat to last a week, let alone two. “O-okay, so that’s different, see? Just over a day versus a fortnight. That’s very different! More importantly,  _ you _ are different, and you’ve changed things so I guess I’m different too.”

Silence.

Martin’s not comfortable with it, so he continues, “You’re changing things already. I’m sure you can continue to make them better. I know you can.”

“Thank you for the words of encouragement, Martin.” The phrasing is dry, but Martin can hear the sincerity in his voice. Jon slowly lifts his head up. When his gaze meets Martin’s, his eyes are clear and there is no painful weight.

Martin smiles, though he can tell his expression is a bit wan. He steps away from Jon’s side to sit in the armchair. “Do you know what you’re going to do? About, um, the guy you warned Sasha away from - what’s his name?”

“Michael is as accurate a name as any,” Jon answers, retrieving his glasses and setting them back on his face. “He seems to want to connect with Sasha for whatever reason. Said he wants to be friends with her. I’ve decided to leave it up to Sasha’s discretion whether to interact with him more or not - she may need the ally.”

Martin leans forward at this. “The ally? Why would Sasha need an ally?”

Jon frowns. “I - I’m not ready to talk about that yet. Suffice to say, I honestly hope I can change her circumstances.”

Martin desperately wants to know what exactly those circumstances are, but he is sure that prodding on that right now will damage the fragile trust Jon has in him. Instead he asks, “What makes you think that Michael will help her?”

“Well, he’s given her a warning about Prentiss. From what I know of him, helping others is...unusual. Especially when the person he has helped is tied to the Archives.” Jon’s voice goes quieter, as if talking to himself, as he says, “Well, she is an assistant rather than the Archivist, that could explain why…” Then Jon blinks, as if remembering Martin is there, and continues at a more normal volume, “If he is drawn to her and does not seek to make her a victim, which at this point I doubt is his game, then he may continue to aid her. I am hoping so, at least.”

Jon then sighs loudly. “Of course, I will not rely on the kindness of  _ Michael _ of all things. There are certain things I will have to...ascertain. And do. I do hope that - that you will continue to stand by me as I try to make a change.”

“Of course I will,” Martin says readily. “I want to be there for you. I want to help.”

“Yes…” Jon murmurs. Then, stiffly, he says, “Well. Thank you, Martin.”

“Of course.”


	15. cataclysm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, and after a long time gone. Sorry! My mental health has been a dumpster fire lately, so this sort of thing has been on the back burner (or maybe just in the fucking fridge). Anyway, don't expect speedy updates for a while, I'm about to be working full time and in grad school full time. Welp.

Jon frowns at his notes grimly. No matter what he does, they do not resolve into anything more positive.

Unfortunately, despite knowing a fair amount about Michael, Jon is frustrated that he has made no progress in locating the creature - and thus in convincing it to help him protect Sasha. He’s grown more and more convinced that Michael could be helpful in holding off the NotThem once their table arrives - which should be about a month or so away, in mid-June, if Jon remembers right.

A knock startles Jon out of his thoughts, and he looks up as Sasha pokes her head into his office. “There’s someone here to make a live statement - one Melanie King.”

Jon can feel his stomach swoop downwards, and he can’t help but mutter, “Oh god.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Can you please - please send her in for me.”

“Sure.” With that, Sasha disappears out the door. Only about a minute later, she returns to hold the door open for Melanie.

Maybe what shocks Jon the most about seeing her is that she doesn’t look angry. Oh, she looks somewhat disdainful as she takes in the room and she definitely has an aura of annoyance, but she isn’t angry. She’s calm. He’s not sure why that shakes him so badly.

“Hello, Jon, is it?” she says as she strides into the room. She sits without prompting, which sends a little flash of irritation up Jon’s spine. Of course, that had happened the first time too.

“Yes. You’re - Melanie, I take it?” Jon isn’t sure his tone is convincing - Melanie frowns at him. It is so very hard to pretend he doesn’t know these things sometimes.

“Yeah,” she says. “So, uh, what exactly do I do?”

Jon picks up the tape recorder in front of him and sets it in the middle of his desk, facing her. It switches on automatically; he hopes Melanie doesn’t notice. “Please state your name and the subject of your experience.”

“Into that?” Melanie stares at the recorder, her disdain obviously growing. “You’re joking.”

Jon sighs. It’s going to be a long day.

Martin nearly drops the files he’s holding as a young woman bursts out of Jon’s office, looking a cross between pissed off and confused. “You,” she says, advancing on Martin. He freezes, feeling a bit like a deer in the headlights under the force of her facial expression. “Which way is out of this stupid place?”

Wordlessly, Martin points.

“Thanks,” the woman says with a nod, before walking the way Martin indicated at a brisk pace.

Well. Martin decides to pop into Jon’s office, just so he can ask, “Who was that?”

Jon looks up from the notes he’s writing. “Oh,” he says, his voice dead tired. “That was Melanie King. We don’t get on.”

“That sounds like an understatement,” Martin says, entering the room and closing the door behind him. He then shifts the files in his arms so he can hold them more comfortably, as setting them down on Jon’s desk seems a bit presumptive.

Jon rests his forehead on one hand, elbow propped on his desk. “I...may have told her not to come back to the Archives.”

“Whoa, seriously? Why?”

“It won’t end well for her. I mean, it doesn’t for anyone, but she’s not yet involved and - and I know she would come to loathe us all for it. She would become bitterly angry, and that wrath and hatred would never go away.”

Martin takes a small step closer. He hasn’t asked about this much, but Jon seems surprisingly open right now, so Martin asks, “Is that - is that something you remember from your future?”

Jon nods, expression distant. “It would be her ruin.”

The tone of his voice is so final and so hopeless that Martin can’t help but shudder. Even so, he manages to ask, “What do you mean by that?”

Still distant, Jon murmurs, “I can’t - I can’t  _ see.  _ It - Beholding doesn’t  _ want _ me to see.” Voice beginning to rise, he continues, “You - you, you - you  _ will _ let me see - I need to  _ know _ \- I will  _ see _ !”

“Jon?” Martin asks, his own voice too loud in his ears. He doesn’t realize that he has backpedaled until his back hits the wall; Martin gasps.

Jon is standing now, hair falling loose from its braid. Static crackles through his voice, now seeming to come from a million miles away, as he snarls at nothing, “ **I will see, and you will not stop me!** ”

There’s an enormous crash and something bright, something like lightning. Martin has to shield his eyes. The next thing he knows, he’s on his hands and knees, shaking. The files are scattered around him on the floor.

He forces himself to look up, to look for Jon. Jon - who is lying slumped against his desk, obviously unconscious. Martin struggles to his feet, managing to stand despite the whole  _ world _ feeling heavy on him. “Jon - “

Footsteps come running, and the door to the office bursts open. Tim stands in the doorway, eyes wide. He takes in Jon’s still form and Martin’s frazzled appearance. “I heard a crash - what the hell happened?”

“I - I don’t know,” Martin says, feeling that to say such a thing is at least honest. 

Tim strides across the room, laying broad fingers against Jon’s throat. Something in Martin tenses at the sight, but Tim says, “He’s got a pulse and he’s breathing. That’s - well, that’s something.” He looks up at Martin. “Let’s get him to the couch in the break room.”

“Okay,” Martin nods and goes to help Tim carry Jon. 

While lifting him, Martin notices how light he is, how bony and thin. He could easily carry the man himself; he’s sure the same is true of Tim. But he appreciates that Tim is letting him help, letting him feel useful in this moment of helplessness.

Even so, looking at Jon’s closed eyes, long eyelashes resting against his cheeks, the shadows so deep below - Martin can’t help but be afraid.


	16. the endless sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaa this chapter has been languishing for too long so here you go !!

There is darkness - darkness and light and strange shapes and colors that are impossible to resolve into any real thing. There is noise too, like someone speaking through static, but again it is impossible to discern what is being said. There’s too much of it all, sound and light and shadow and, worse, information. The information tells him more than he ever wanted to know, but he can’t help himself but take it all in voraciously.

And in the midst of it all, Jon - Jon  _ drowns.  _

By the close of the third day, Martin begins to lose hope of Jon ever waking again.

Day one had been the hardest in a way - locating Jon’s keys, convincing Tim to help him maneuver Jon back to his flat, and so on. Day two had been stressful yet boring - Martin had stayed at Jon’s flat, looking over the unconscious figure in the bed. Day three was more of the same, but with a growing sense of dread.

So when Martin is pulled out of a doze by the faintest of movements, he can’t help but feel relieved. But when he looks at Jon more closely, he’s not sure what moved. Apart from the gentle rise and fall of Jon’s breath, there seem to be no signs of life.

And then - there! The hand Martin can see clenches into a fist, then very slowly relaxes.

“Jon?” Martin murmurs, getting up from the dining chair he had brought into Jon’s bedroom; it’s a bit painful to do so, as he has spent much of those three days in that chair. After taking a second to stretch, Martin walks over to Jon’s side. He searches Jon’s form for any other movement, anything else to tell him that Jon will wake soon.

But nothing else seems to be forthcoming, so Martin begins to walk back to the chair.

Then: “Martin?”

Jon’s voice is very faint and a little rough. Almost, Martin thinks, as if he had been screaming, but apart from that staticky command in his office, Jon had been silent for the last few days.

“Yes,” Martin says, rushing back to Jon’s side. He desperately wants to pick up one of Jon’s hands and hold it, but he restrains himself. “I’m here.”

Jon stares up at the ceiling, eyes oddly unfocused, like he isn’t really seeing anything. He opens his mouth, but he coughs rather than speaks. Some muscle in his jaw works for a moment before relaxing. “Water, please,” he croaks.

“Right,” Martin says. He takes a step back, eyes on Jon all the while. “I’ll be right back with that.”

Then Martin exits the bedroom and rummages in the kitchen for a glass and Jon’s water pitcher. After successfully locating both, he fills the glass and, after a moment’s thought, brings both the glass and the pitcher with him back into the bedroom.

Jon is sitting up now, leaning heavily on a pillow propped against the wall. His eyes are closed. He doesn’t acknowledge Martin until the other man sets the pitcher down on the nightstand. Without opening his eyes, he holds out a hand, pliant. Martin carefully takes Jon’s hand and wraps it around the glass. Once he is sure Jon has a good grip, he lets go, watching as Jon drinks almost greedily.

As soon as the water is gone, Jon puts the glass down on the nightstand. Martin refills it, then replaces the pitcher next to the glass. He sits back down in the chair.

When Jon doesn’t seem inclined to open his eyes or talk, Martin leans forward and asks in a voice made sharp by anxiety, “What  _ happened _ , Jon?”

Jon shudders in a way that is visceral and deep. But beyond that, he doesn’t answer.

“You have to talk to me, Jon!” Martin snaps. He knows his tone is a bit on the nasty side, but three days of worry and little sleep have worn on him.

Finally, finally, Jon opens his eyes. It takes a long moment for them to focus on Martin, to truly see him. And when Jon’s gaze finally settles on him, Martin is suddenly reminded of the descriptions of shell shock from the First World War. There is a certain haunted element to the shadows in Jon’s eyes that speaks to similar depths of fear and hopelessness.

“What happened?” Martin asks again, but this time he can hear the helplessness in his own voice.

To Jon, Martin’s voice seems to come from a great distance away. If pressed, Jon could not say how far, only that the sound is faint and the words seem to come on top of each other, difficult but not impossible to parse.

“You have to talk to me, Jon!”

The darkness is comforting. A large part of Jon never wants to see again, just wants to waste away in shadows forever.

...but he knows he cannot do so. There are others relying on him to make sure things go right. And even though that line of reasoning seems strange and far-off, Jon knows also that he would usually care.

So, Jon decides to act in the interest of the version of him that cares.

He opens his eyes.

At first the light burns, even though he recognizes it immediately as the somewhat dim lamp in his bedroom. After what seems like an eternity, Jon is able to direct his gaze to Martin.

Martin, whose face is drawn with worry and fear. Again, it is a bitter fear, because it is not of Jon but  _ for _ him. Martin, whose hands clutch at each other in his lap, as if he is trying to provide comfort to himself.

And maybe that is true, for all the sharpness in his voice has drained away as he asks, still from a great distance, “What happened?”

Jon suddenly Knows how long he has been unconscious, and he understands the terror he had instilled in Martin moments before he was struck down by Beholding. So he endeavors to answer honestly, as he feels that Martin is owed that much. “I...I pushed too hard. I forced Beholding to let me see what happened to Melanie after I - after I died. Beholding was angry; it - it made me see too much.”

Martin looks - he looks stricken. “Are you okay?” Then he winces. “Actually, that’s a stupid question, isn’t it? I guess I mean - you said before that you’d lose yourself if you pushed too far. Are you - still - you?”

Jon can’t help himself but shudder.

“I - “ he begins, but his mouth is dry. He stops, and takes a sip of water. After setting the glass down again, he tries again: “I - maybe? Everything feels so... _ distant _ right now. Like I’m not here. Not really. Or you aren’t. I’m not sure which it is.”

Jon feels so lost.

Jon looks lost. Like he’s not entirely sure what is real anymore. 

Martin stands and walks over to Jon’s side. Jon’s eyes track him, but he doesn’t say anything more. Moving slowly in an attempt to obviously telegraph his movements, Martin reaches down and picks up one of Jon’s hands and holds it in both of his. Jon doesn’t resist. Martin grips him tighter, but the distance has not left Jon’s face.

“I’m here,” Martin tells him, voice a bit rough. “I’m here with you. You’re here too. I don’t know how long you will feel this way, but I’ll stay with you to remind you that you’re here. That we’re together in this.”

Finally, Jon reacts, his mouth twisting down sharply. “No,” he says, voice a little more steady and tone almost imperious. “You - you can’t be with me on this, on any of it.”

At that, Martin can feel something in the pit of his stomach turn to ice. That old anxiety, the one of never being good enough for anyone, snaps its jaws, drives his mouth to form words he doesn’t want to say. He doesn’t want to know.

Except, he does. So he asks, “Why not?”

“Why not?” 

The words sound sharp and jagged to Jon’s ears, almost like shattered glass. He very carefully does not wince.

Jon looks down at his hand in Martin’s, at how Martin’s hands almost seem to dwarf Jon in their hold. 

He should feel safe. He’s with Martin. Martin often makes him feel just that much safer, because he knows that Martin will always try to protect him or help him, no matter what. Even when he shouldn’t.

Because, despite everything that Jon is, Martin appears to care about him.

Maybe that’s why Jon cannot bear this knowledge that sits heavy in his chest.

“I saw what happened to you,” Jon admits. “During the Unknowing, and after. I can’t - I can _ not _ do that to you again.”


End file.
